


UST (An Unfortunate Series of Tropes)

by ureshiiichigo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A veritable plethora of, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Competitive Snarking, Derek has the emotional expression of a donut, Derek's wolf form is the fluffiest don't even, Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Nudity, Pining, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Telepathic Bond, Tropes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voodoo Doughnut, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ureshiiichigo/pseuds/ureshiiichigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek sitting in a tree, M-A-R-R-I-E-D. </p><p>Wait, what? </p><p>Or: Stiles thought he and Derek were finally getting to be bros, and then Deaton had to go and ruin everything with his stupid spell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Animal Transformation (Or: Lack of self-preservation instinct)

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO FRIENDS.
> 
> At least, I hope we will soon be friends. For all I know, some of you may become my nemeses after reading this. (Can you have more than one nemesis?)
> 
> I started writing this story while 3B was still airing, in February 2014. Yes. Seeing Derek talk to his wolfy mom made me think of Derek as a wolf, and I wanted to write that story. Of course, nothing I do is ever so simple. 
> 
> This is compliant up to about the middle of season 3B, because 1) Allison is mysteriously absent, since she and her dad are totally chilling in France, 2) Malia? She’s that one werecoyote chick and definitely not someone Stiles ever made out with, and 3) Kate is nowhere to be found outside of Derek’s emotional trauma (and let’s keep it that way).
> 
> Add in the failed attempt at trope bingo from the summer of ‘14, and you have a story with animal transformations, soul bonding, accidental marriage, road trips, magical hijinks, tolerant Scott, Stiles being a horny teenager, and Derek’s abs.
> 
> After a year and a half, nanowrimo, handholding from two betas, and a heck of a lot of editing, I am now ready to unveil the fabulousness that is... this...
> 
> Thing.
> 
> Yep. It’s a thing.
> 
> This is not a WIP, but I’m not going to post it all at once; feel free to wait to read until the whole thing has been posted. There are ~~nineteen~~ twenty chapters, and the last chapter should be posted by the end of June, just in time for the new season of Teen Wolf—here’s hoping season five won’t dash all our hopes and dreams (this time).
> 
> Warnings for **mention of past trauma** (poor Derek); **dubious bordering on non-consent** with regards to sexy things, magic, and just in general; **underage** Stiles getting all up on that; and general ridiculousness.
> 
> Uncountably many thanks to [percygranger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/percygranger/) and [desiderii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/desiderii/) for beta’ing, re-beta’ing, listening to my ranting, helping me brainstorm, and cheering me on when I thought that I would never finish this and it would be sitting in my drafts folder FOREVER. You guys are awesome.
> 
> <3

Stiles didn’t know exactly what made him stop and look deeper into the woods. The trees were cast into faint shadow by the ambient light of the afternoon thunderstorm, and the only sounds were the steady drip of rain against the foliage above and the squish-squelch of Stiles’ shoes as he trudged across the muddy ground. Maybe it was something his subconscious picked up on—a smell, something moving out of the corner of his eye, the pitter patter of a heartbeat. Whatever it was, Stiles found himself stopping mid-stride and peering into a gloomy copse of trees.

It wasn’t until he saw eyes staring back at him—glowing, blue eyes—that he yelped in surprise and stumbled back against a tree trunk.

The sight was gone as soon as it had registered, and Stiles blinked into the darkness, not really sure whether he had been imagining things. 

He took a tentative step forward, not willing to write it off just yet. “You still there?” he called out, wincing when his voice broke. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Shit, that had been a stupid thing to say. Now whatever-it-was might think Stiles was prey instead of predator. Stiles was no one’s mid-afternoon snack, thank you. 

“I’m part of the McCall pack,” he added.

He stayed still a few more seconds, straining to hear the sound of footsteps, anything, but nothing was forthcoming. Maybe he was hallucinating things. It wouldn’t be a first.

He turned around, ready to give up and trudge back to his car, and nearly collided with a hulking form.

“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick!” He shoved his hands against the warm, solid wall of muscle in front of him. The very familiar wall of muscle, clad in a dark grey henley and scowling at him from underneath thick black eyebrows. Oh.

“Stop yelling,” Derek growled, hands gripping Stiles’ upper arms. He looked about five seconds away from shaking Stiles into silence or head injury.

“Don’t shake the baby!” Stiles said, then snapped his mouth shut with a click as Derek’s brow creased in a familiar mixture of disgust and confusion. “I mean. Just. Hi.”

“Stay out of the woods,” Derek added, creepy as ever, before releasing his death grip on Stiles’ arms and stalking off into said woods.

“Okay, dude,” Stiles called after him. “You know I always listen to you.” Derek’s shoulders hunched inward, muscles bunching through his shirt, and Stiles smirked.

He was halfway home, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, when he realized that Derek hadn’t been wearing shoes.

***

A week later, Stiles went back to the spot in the woods where he’d seen the glowing blue eyes, but there was nothing there. No mysterious rustlings, no wolf tracks, and no creepy ex-alpha werewolves. He tried not to feel disappointed as he slid into his jeep and headed home.

As he was falling asleep that night, he could have sworn he heard howling.

***

The next day at lunch, he asked Scott about it.

“So,” he began, casual as always, “Scott. Bro. Man. Dude. Homedog. How are things?”

“Huh?” Scott shot him a startled look over his pizza slice. He chewed carefully before swallowing. “Is everything okay?”

“What? No. Of course it is,” Stiles said. He was the master of calm. A calm artist, you could say. “I was just wondering if you’ve talked to Derek lately.”

Scott seemed to deflate a little and he quirked an eyebrow. “Derek again?”

“What do you mean, again?” Stiles glared at Scott before stuffing another handful of french fries into his mouth. He continued glaring as he chewed.

“Nothing,” Scott said, a smile playing about his mouth. 

Stiles did not approve of that smile. No, Siree. “I’m just asking because I ran into him a couple weeks ago.” Literally.

Scott started picking off slices of pepperoni and popping them directly into his mouth. “Did you?” he asked, sounding completely uninterested.

“You could at least pretend to care,” Stiles complained. “He threatened me. I could be legitimately terrified.”

“Since when are you terrified of Derek?” Scott asked, tearing off the corner of his pizza slice and chewing it slowly. “Besides, if it had been important, you would have told me before now.”

Stiles deflated. “Okay, fine. But maybe I think it’s important now, and that’s why I’m telling you.”

Scott quirked an eyebrow.

“Fine, it’s not important, I wanted to whine about Derek, are you happy now?”

Scott smiled beatifically in Stiles’ general direction before turning back to his plate. “You should just ask him out, already.”

“Not this again.” Stiles stood, gathering up his still half-full lunch tray. “I think I’m going to eat _outside_ , where I can be with those who appreciate me. Like trees. Trees appreciate me. More than you do anyway.”

“See you at practice,” Scott called out to Stiles’ retreating form. 

Stiles tried not to sigh as he dumped his fries and apple slices in the trash. He hadn’t been that hungry, anyway.

***

The second time Stiles saw the owner of the glowing blue eyes, he wasn’t actually looking for them. Greenberg had somehow managed to toss the practice ball into the trees, in the complete opposite direction of the goal. In between yelling at Greenberg and shooing away the other players after practice ended, Coach Finstock sent Stiles to go fetch the missing ball, since he was the one closest to that end of the field. Also because he had spent most of practice making snarky comments, and apparently Coach had felt some resentment about that. Go figure.

Stiles was muttering to himself about lacrosse balls growing legs and walking away when he saw a dark form dart out from behind a tree and melt back into the darkness. It looked like a cross between a large black lab and a wolf.

Stiles started running after it. 

Now, Stiles would be the first person to admit that his curiosity was not always a good thing. It helped him out more often than not, but Stiles did not have nine lives. 

The thought occurred to Stiles, mid sprint through the ever-darkening forest, that it may not have been the best idea to run after what was, at best, an actual wild animal, and at worst, an unknown werecreature. No one could hear him scream for help or come to his rescue if it turned and bit him.

The wolf-dog, though, seemed to be more concerned with fleeing than mauling Stiles, which was a point in his favor. After about a minute and a half (Stiles was tired from running suicides, okay?) Stiles lost sight of the wolf-dog through the trees. Soon after, he stood bent over with hands on his knees, panting for breath.

All things considered, he was feeling pretty okay until he was tackled to the ground by a very heavy, exceedingly muscular, human-shaped object. 

“Oh my god please don’t eat me!”

“I’m not going to eat you, Stiles,” Derek growled, mashing Stiles’ face into the leaves and twigs coating the forest floor.

“Oh, you’re just going to murder me, then?” Stiles managed to gasp out. Derek’s elbow was digging into his back and his hand was cupping his skull, keeping him from twisting around to look. “Maybe some light maiming? Because our current relative position is not giving me positive vibes, dude.”

Without warning, the warm weight on top of him disappeared.

Stiles blinked into the dirt a few times before he pushed himself to his knees. He twisted to look behind him, craning his head around, but Derek was nowhere to be seen.

“I told you to stay out of the woods,” Derek said, his voice filtering out from behind one of the trees behind Stiles. Stiles scrambled to his feet and started towards the origin of his voice.

“And you should have known that I was going to do the opposite,” Stiles pointed out. “I’m contrary by nature.”

“If you get hurt, Scott and the others won’t be able to help you,” Derek growled from up ahead and to the left. “There could be rogue omegas, or witches, or who knows what else.”

Stiles crowed triumphantly when he edged around the tree where Derek was hiding, only for all the air to leave his lungs when he actually got a good look at him.

Derek was naked.

Derek was standing in the middle of the woods, arms crossed over his perfectly sculpted chest, one eyebrow raised and his lips twisted in a smirk, and he was wearing _no clothing whatsoever_. Stiles forgot how to breathe as all the blood in his body rerouted itself. This was karmic justice for something terrible he’d done in a past life, he just knew it. 

“Stop staring,” Derek said, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, god, he now knew what Derek Hale’s penis looked like. It was uncut, of course it was uncut—he was a _werewolf_ , his arm would probably have grown back if Stiles had ended up cutting it off, there was no way anyone would get rid of foreskin on a born werewolf, unless it was some process like the one to get tattoos, and Stiles really didn’t want to be thinking of even more horrifying circumcision techniques, or Derek’s genitals. Both of those subjects were roads his mind did not need to be traveling down, he—

“Stiles,” Derek said, and a hand fell on Stiles’ shoulder, and all Stiles could think about was Derek Hale’s stupid penis—well, not stupid, it had actually looked very nice, a darker brown than the rest of his skin, thick even while soft, with a spray of dark curls at the base, and oh god he was getting a boner in front of Derek Hale, thinking about Derek Hale, and Derek would know, and—

“Why the fuck are you naked?” Stiles blurted, still refusing to open his eyes.

Derek’s hand fell away, and there was a faint shuffling noise, and then the sound of an aborted growl. Like, not a Derek Hale I-will-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth mock growl, but an actual dog growl.

Stiles opened his eyes, and Derek was gone. He looked down, and at his feet, sat the most annoyed looking labrador-wolf-dog that Stiles had ever seen. Unfortunately, the wolf-dog was also _freaking adorable_. “Oh my god, you still have eyebrows!”

The wolf tilted its head in a, ‘Really, Stiles?’ expression, then turned and started ambling away from him, back towards the high school. Stiles scrambled after him.

“Since when have you been able to turn into a wolf? Can Scott turn into a wolf? Is it only born werewolves that can, or bitten ones too? Is it an alpha thing? Because you’re not alpha anymore, but you used to be, did you learn how to do it while you were alpha or something?”

Derek ignored him, trotting ahead with his tail held high, and Stiles had the stray thought that his ass was a lot less attractive in this form. But he was probably more cuddly.

“Do you like pets? Not, like, dogs that you own, the other kind, I mean, like, the act of petting. Like, could I pet you? Would you bite my hand off if I tried?”

He kept up the stream of questions until they finally stepped out onto the school lacrosse field. Stiles blinked as he looked around at the school grounds. Derek just snagged Stiles’ jeans leg between his teeth and tugged him in the direction of the parking lot.

“Do you have clothes or are you going to streak across the lacrosse field?” Stiles asked, raising his brows in question.

Derek just huffed, pretty much the same sound as he made as a human, and trotted back into the woods.

Stiles was half tempted to follow him, but then he heard Derek shout, “Go home, Stiles!” from wherever he was lurking.

Naked.

In the woods.

Watching the lacrosse players in secret.

Okay, Derek had officially crossed to the next level of creepy. Stiles had mistakenly thought the guy had already maxed out, but apparently not.

“You’re exceptionally creepy, you know that?” Stiles shouted, before turning around and heading to his jeep.

***

The next day, Coach yelled at him for a full five minutes about forgetting the lacrosse ball. It probably didn’t help when Stiles pointed out he could buy them for five bucks on Amazon. Apparently Coach didn’t have Amazon Prime.

***

Derek was waiting for Stiles after lacrosse practice the following Wednesday. He was wearing clothes, and everything.

“Hey,” Stiles said, rummaging through his backpack for the peanut butter sandwiches he’d packed. “You hungry?”

Derek raised his eyebrows in apparent incredulity, but otherwise did not move from where he was sitting slumped against a tree with his forearms resting on his knees, wrists loosely crossed. He was barefoot, his only clothes the same dark grey henley he’d been wearing the first time Stiles had seen him, and stonewashed jeans that clung to his thighs.

Stiles wondered briefly whether Derek was going commando under the jeans to make for a more convenient wolf-human switch, and felt the back of his neck go hot. He grit his teeth and thrust the sandwich baggie at Derek.

Derek sniffed, his nostrils flaring, before taking the sandwich from Stiles and opening the bag carefully.

Stiles settled down on the ground next to Derek. The ground was damp and covered with twigs that poked into his butt, but Stiles wiggled until he was marginally more comfortable. “So,” he said.

“No.” Derek pinched the plastic bag between his index finger and thumb to open it wider and breathed in.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Derek removed the sandwich from its bag and set it on his lap. “You were going to ask me about my wolf form.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know _what_ I was going to ask,” Stiles protested, taking a bite of peanut butter, strawberry preserves, and wheat bread. 

Derek was still watching Stiles with narrowed eyes. “It’s not poisoned,” Stiles said, the words sticking in his mouth thanks to the peanut butter. He swallowed loudly before smiling and batting his eyelashes. “See?”

Derek rolled his eyes. He took a careful bite, chewed, and swallowed before turning to raise an eyebrow at Stiles. “I’m sure whatever you were going to ask was some combination of invasive, embarrassing, and idiotic.”

“You’re a jerk,” Stiles said, frowning at Derek over his sandwich. “I brought you an offering. A food offering. You should learn to appreciate me more.”

Derek turned back to his sandwich.

Stiles decided not to push. There was something nice about sitting at the edge of the woods with Derek, eating peanut butter sandwiches. The silence was surprisingly companionable.

***

Derek didn’t thank him for the sandwich, but he didn’t give Stiles the glare of doom either, and even offered to throw out his plastic baggie for him afterwards, so Stiles counted it as a win. 


	2. Bed Sharing (Or: Don’t get drool on my pillow)

On the third Wednesday in a row that Stiles came home late (because he’d spent over an hour after practice running with Derek in the woods), his father raised an eyebrow at him when he walked in the front door.

“Son,” he said, “is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Stiles blinked back at his father. “What?”

Stiles’ dad waved a hand in Stiles’ general direction. “You might want to change clothes. And wash your hair.”

Stiles looked down at his outfit, which was still muddy from when Derek, in wolf form, had snuck up behind Stiles and head-butted the back of his knees. Stiles ran a hand through his hair and winced when he determined that there were leaves still embedded in it. “Dammit,” he muttered, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans.

“Is this a pack thing?” his dad asked. In the past year, he’d been trying to be more understanding about Stiles’ involvement in werewolf shenanigans, but he’d also tried to be more involved himself.

“Sort of?” Stiles said, shrugging, and turned to start trudging up to his room. A shower sounded like a fabulous idea. His muscles were aching from the combination of lacrosse practice, bruises from rough housing with Derek, and cold mud seeping into his skin.

“ _Sort of_ ,” his dad said. “Just like you’ve _sort of_ come home bruised and covered in mud for the past three weeks?” 

Stiles turned to look at his dad from over his shoulder and offered a shrug. “Yeah?”

His dad just sighed heavily, and Stiles fought the urge to apologize. There was nothing to apologize for. Hanging out with Derek wasn’t wrong, or unsafe. Maybe he just didn’t feel like sharing.

***

A week later, when Stiles walked up to their usual meeting spot, Derek was waiting for him in wolf form and chewing absently on a pinecone.

Stiles kicked at the pinecone, just to see Derek bristle in indignation, before stretching out on the ground next to him. He propped one arm behind him to lever his torso off the ground while the other dug inside his backpack to retrieve their sandwiches. 

“I brought roast beef this week,” he said, sneaking a glance over at Derek. He saw the base of his tail twitch. Almost a wag. Soon he and Derek might even be almost-bros.

Derek almost always changed to human form to eat his sandwich, ever since Stiles had started cackling upon seeing wolf-Derek scarf down his meal in two bites. Stiles waited for Derek to slink back to wherever he’d hidden his clothes and sit down cross legged next to him before speaking.

“Why do you always come here to wolf out?”

Derek raised an eyebrow before leaning over to reach for his sandwich. Stiles jerked the baggies out of reach, crossing his arm over his chest and raising his own eyebrow in challenge. Derek would have to lean across him to get the sandwiches, and Stiles was pretty sure he wouldn’t risk that much bodily contact.

Sure enough, Derek sighed and sat back down, propping his hands behind him. “Why do you care?”

Stiles shrugged, crossing his legs and depositing the sandwiches in the space between his legs. If Derek wanted it, he’d have to come uncomfortably close to his junk. Well, uncomfortable for Derek, Stiles assumed. “It’s a pretty terrible place to be caught naked. Right next to the school, in sight of the lacrosse field? You’re just asking to be charged as a sex offender, buddy.”

Derek scowled. He made a half-hearted grab for the sandwiches, but Stiles leaned over to protect them.

“I’m just saying, you have how many acres in the preserve to use?” Stiles toyed with the corner of the plastic sandwich bag, flicking it up and down. “Why do you come out here?”

Derek huffed. “I need to be near pack.”

Stiles frowned at him. 

Derek’s hand rubbed against Stiles’ crotch as he grabbed his sandwich, and Stiles scrambled backward even as his muscles clenched and blood rushed downward. “Not cool!” he shouted, but Derek just rolled his eyes and started eating. Stiles furiously thought about polynomial equations and Coach Finstock until his heartbeat returned to normal.

“Why do you need to be near pack?” Stiles asked, but Derek just glared at him and bit down on his sandwich with more force than was really necessary.

“Fine, dude, whatever, I was just asking.”

Derek swallowed his bite and frowned at Stiles. A little crease appeared between his eyebrows to signal his confusion. “Ask again next time.”

“Next time?” Stiles perked up. “Wait, does this mean you’ll actually answer me?”

Derek smirked. “I never said that.” He threw the now-empty plastic bag at Stiles’ head and slunk back into the trees. When he came out less than a minute later, he was in his now familiar wolf form, and Stiles didn’t try to suppress his grin.

Stiles didn’t even mind when, half an hour in, Derek leapt on top of him and knocked him face first into the mud.

***

Three days later, Stiles came home to find Derek asleep in his bed.

More accurately, when he got back to his empty house at three in the afternoon on Saturday, after spending the morning playing video games with Scott, he tromped up the stairs to his room only to find a large black dog-wolf thing asleep in his bed. When he shrieked accordingly, it blinked open sleepy eyes and huffed at Stiles in a familiar fashion.

“Ohmigod,” Stiles babbled, sagging against the doorframe in relief. “Warn a guy.” He rubbed a hand through damp hair and tossed his jacket on the computer chair as his heart slowed down from its double-time beat.

Derek rolled his eyes and buried his muzzle back into the nest of bedsheets, his tail dragging slowly back and forth across Stiles’ pillows. His left ear flicked lazily and Stiles was struck by the overwhelming urge to leap on top of him and hug the stuffing out of him.

He glanced at the rain streaking down his window and quirked an eyebrow at Derek. “Couldn’t get your wolf on in the rain storm, so you decided to break into my bedroom instead?”

Derek snuffle-snorted and Stiles’ insides turned to a puddle of goo. “Fine, fine, but you better not get any mud on the sheets. Or drool on my pillow.” He slung his backpack under his desk, settling into his chair with legs splayed wide, and opened up his laptop to start work on his English Lit assignment. He couldn’t help glancing back at his bed every few minutes though.

A few hours later, the rain outside slowed to a trickle before stopping entirely. Derek stretched, shaking out his coat, before jumping off the bed and padding over to his neatly folded henley and jeans. He pointed his muzzle directly at Stiles and stared. 

It took Stiles a few seconds to realize that Derek wanted him to turn around while he changed. “Don’t see why I’m the one who has to turn my back,” he muttered, “seeing as how you’re the one who invaded my privacy.” He stared at a black smudge on his desk and tried not to think about the soft rustle of cloth from behind him.

Stiles heard the window sliding open just as Derek said, “Good night, Stiles.” 

By the time Stiles turned around to gape at him, the window was open and Derek was long gone.

***

That Wednesday, Derek was waiting in human form, sitting propped up against a tree trunk, reading a book. He licked his thumb before turning to the next page. “Stiles,” he said, without looking up.

“Yo,” Stiles said, swinging his backpack off his shoulders and flopping onto his stomach next to Derek’s tree. “Whatcha readin’?”

“Kafka’s _Metamorphosis_ ,” Derek said. Stiles craned his head to read the book cover, which had a picture of a green ball with skinny arms and a toothy smile, and read _The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_.

Stiles rolled onto his back and started rummaging through his backpack for their sandwiches. “What part are you at? Did Arthur Dent just get turned into a giant insect?”

“Gregor is reciting terrible poetry to his sister, who can’t properly appreciate it because he’s a giant fly, and she hasn’t gotten a babel fish yet.” Derek thumbed to the next page.

“Vorlon poetry?”

“Vogon poetry,” Derek corrected. 

“Wait, where did I get Vorlon from, then?” Stiles threw a sandwich at his face. 

Derek caught it without looking. “Not from any book I’ve read.”

Stiles sighed and pulled out his math textbook and flipped to the current week’s assignment. “Dude, do you have anything for me to rest this on? I don’t want to get dirt on it.”

“Use your backpack,” Derek said.

Stiles spread his backpack on the ground, balancing his textbook on top. “Ugh, fine. You know, if you were in wolf form I’d just put it on your back.”

“All the more reason to stay a human.”

“I’m glad we have these little chats,” Stiles mused, uncapping his highlighter. “It reaffirms why I come out here every week.”

When he glanced out of the corner of his eye, Derek was smiling.

***

On Saturday evening, Stiles wasn’t terribly surprised when Derek slipped in through his cracked window. “Hey,” he said, not looking up from his laptop screen.

Derek toed off his shoes and walked out of the bedroom without saying anything. When the door creaked back open, wolf-Derek padded in.

“You going to do this every Saturday?” Stiles asked, but Derek just ignored him and jumped up on his bed, turning twice before settling down on top of the covers. “Oh, just make yourself comfortable, not like I was planning on using that.”

Derek huffed, and Stiles could have sworn he was smiling. Not that wolves smiled.

“Weirdo,” Stiles said.

***

At half past midnight, Stiles scrubbed his hand over his face and blinked at his laptop screen. His vision was fuzzy and his mind kept drifting in different directions, like a balloon without a tether. He was halfway out of his jeans before he turned and saw the large black fur ball that was still lying on his bed.

“Derek,” he croaked, stumbling the rest of the way to his bed and stepping on his own feet to pull off his socks. “Derek, oh my god, why are you still _here_. Get off my bed, fuzzbutt.”

Derek made no indication of rousing from his slumber, just twitched before settling further into the covers, and Stiles sighed. He was too tired to deal with this. With a huff, he hoisted himself into bed, collapsing half on top of Derek. He was pleasantly warm, his chest moving up and down with each breath. 

Stiles crawled over until he was wedged in between Derek and the wall, his back pressed up against Derek’s side. It was kind of weird, but not much different than sleeping with a full body pillow. A heated, gently shifting, furry body pillow. Okay, it was a lot different, but Stiles was tired.

“Guess you can stay,” Stiles mumbled, vaguely wondering if Derek would try to eat him in the middle of the night, before he shut his eyes and let sleep carry him off.

***

When he woke up, he was alone in the bed, but there were black hairs sticking to the comforter, and a patch of drool on his pillow. Gross.

He stumbled into the bathroom and there were black hairs in his comb as well. Stupid, vain werewolves.

Of course, the rest of the day Stiles was stuck thinking about what Derek would have looked like if he had stayed, instead of sneaking out of bed while Stiles was still sleeping and climbing silently out of the window. He wondered what would have happened if Stiles had woken first, able to look down at Derek, his face slack from sleep, his hair flattened on one side from a bad case of bed head. Derek probably would have sported pillow creases on his cheek, and as he yawned and stretched, his muscles flexing in the sunlight, Stiles could have run his hands through his hair. Seen how it felt without all that dumb hair gel. 

Stiles ended up taking an extra-long shower as soon as his dad left for his shift. 

Stupid, sexy werewolves.


	3. Clothes Stealing (Or: My whole life is a lie)

For the first time in weeks, Derek wasn’t waiting for him at their usual spot. Stiles pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time, but it wasn’t later than normal or anything. It hadn’t even rained that day, and Stiles had been looking forward to being able to run around without getting a face full of mud.

“Derek?” he called out, but there was no response. Derek didn’t even leap out from behind a tree to scare the crap out of Stiles. To be fair, Stiles wasn’t super disappointed about the lack of heart-attack-inducing surprise werewolves.

“I’m eating without you, loser,” Stiles said. “Your loss.” He sat down on the ground, cross-legged, and started to unwrap his sandwich. He kept a running commentary going, because if Derek was around, he’d be able to hear him, and if there was one thing Stiles excelled at, it was talking. Eventually Derek would get annoyed and show himself, if only to make Stiles shut up.

When Derek finally came out of hiding, Stiles was halfway into his story about the time in fifth grade when he challenged Scott to eat an entire bottle of hot sauce (spoiler alert: he threw up on Stiles’ favorite shirt). Even in human form, Derek didn’t say a word. He just walked up to Stiles, stole his backpack, rummaged through it for his sandwich, and stalked off again.

“Hey!” Stiles protested, scrambling to his feet in order to follow Derek. “Where do you think you’re going, huh?” He stooped to pick up a couple of rocks and lobbed them in Derek’s general direction as he sashayed off through the trees. Stiles spent a moment staring at the sway of his hips before he stumbled after him.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said, but if he’d really wanted to get rid of him, he could have run faster than Stiles could keep up. Then again, Derek was still holding his sandwich, so it wasn’t like he could drop to all fours and do his weird wolf-run thing.

“You were late,” Stiles said instead, stuffing his now-empty Ziploc baggie into his jeans pocket and throwing his backpack over his shoulders. He jogged to catch up so he could walk abreast with Derek. “There’s fashionably late, and then there’s making me wait for a half hour while my butt gets cold. Rude, Derek, rude.”

“We don’t have a scheduled time,” Derek said between gritted teeth, showing just a hint of fang.

“Lies,” Stiles interjected cheerfully. “I bet you were just trying to get out of answering my questions. Which, not cool.”

Derek didn’t answer, just frowned and glanced sideways to look at Stiles, so briefly that Stiles wasn’t even sure he had done it.

“Why do you need to be near pack?” Stiles asked.

Derek stopped mid-stride and turned to look at him, his eyebrows creasing and his lower lip jutting out.

“What?” Stiles asked, stopping with a jolt. His backpack thumped heavily against his lower back from the sudden movement. “You told me to ask that question next time; this totally counts as a next time, so I’m asking.”

Derek brought one hand up to rub against the nape of his neck, and he looked almost vulnerable, gaze flicking down to the ground to avoid eye contact with Stiles.

“It’s an anchor thing,” he said.

“Okay, cool.”

Derek glared at Stiles from underneath his eyebrows. “Will you leave me alone, now?”

Stiles grinned. “No way, annoying you is the highlight of my day.”

Derek’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I hate you,” he said, before turning and striding back towards the school.

Stiles just grinned and followed him. “No, you don’t.”

Derek just shot Stiles a withering glare before opening his sandwich bag and taking a large bite.

“Don’t chew so angrily,” Stiles said, feeling smug. “You’ll get indigestion.”

Derek growled. That was okay. Stiles knew Derek loved him anyway.

***

On Saturday, Stiles kept glancing at the clock, but midnight rolled around and there was still no sign of Derek. It was stupid for Stiles to expect him. He couldn’t be that much fun to hang around with, after all.

***

On Monday, at lunch, Stiles set his lunch tray across the table from Scott with a solid thunk.

“So, Derek,” he said, and Scott cocked his head with a faint smile on his face.

“Yeah?” Scott asked.

Stiles took a deep breath before sitting down. “He’s been creepin’ on us.”

Scott scrunched up his nose in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s been hiding in the woods behind the lacrosse field and spying on us!”

Scott laughed. “No, he hasn’t.”

Stiles leaned forward, his shirt nearly falling into his mashed potatoes. “He goes there every Wednesday and wolfs out. Like, super wolfs out.”

Scott’s expression cleared, but he was still sporting an amused half-smile. “Yeah, I know.”

“You know.” Stiles frowned. He had been betrayed, by his own best friend.

“Yeah, he told me.” Scott rolled his eyes and took a bite of pudding.

“Wait, what?” Stiles hissed. “You’re not going to elaborate on that?”

Scott crooked a grin. “It’s not just Wednesday.”

Stiles slumped back in his chair and blinked. “Every day?”

Scott shrugged. “That we have lacrosse practice, yeah.” He tilts his head. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know about it? Even if Derek hadn’t told me, I can still smell him.”

“My whole life is a lie,” Stiles complained. 

Scott wordlessly pushed his bottle of cranberry juice across the table.

“I will not stoop to accepting bribes,” Stiles said, reaching for the juice and immediately downing half of it. Scott just smiled and continued eating his pudding.

***

Just in case he was imagining things, Stiles waited in the woods for an hour on Wednesday. Derek never showed.

***

The following day, after lacrosse practice, Stiles dragged Scott with him into the woods. Scott paused to sniff before leading them to a hollowed out tree trunk containing a neatly folded grey henley and pair of faded jeans. Stiles grinned broadly before stuffing them in his backpack and following Scott back to the locker room.

“What do you think, should I dunk them in the toilet? Or use the showers?”

Scott wrinkled his nose. “Whatever, dude. I’m not sticking around for the part where Derek chooses between nudity and wet clothing,” he said, hoisting his backpack over one shoulder.

Stiles frowned down at the clothing. Definitely shower. He didn’t want Derek’s clothes to smell weird; he just didn’t want them to smell. Otherwise, Derek could just track them down, and Stiles would lose his bargaining chip. 

He glanced back up when the door clanged open. “Give my love to Kira!” Stiles called to Scott’s back, before turning towards the showers.

***

Stiles wasn’t exactly expecting to be tackled to the tile floor of the locker room by an angry black wolf, but he supposed he deserved it.

“Hey,” he said, grinning up at Derek, who was baring his very sharp teeth at Stiles.

Derek growled before getting off him and sitting back on his haunches, fur bristling.

“You gonna turn back into your grumpy self, so we can talk about this?”

Derek growled and Stiles took that for a _Not without clothes._

Well, either that or just _No._

Stiles sighed before walking towards the showers. He could feel the waves of anger emanating from behind him. “Look, I just wanted to get you to stop avoiding me.”

He bit his lip before stepping around the corner, looking back at Derek and gesturing at Derek’s darkened jeans, sitting neatly folded next to a shower drain. “Dude, I don’t know what I did, but whatever it is, will you just _tell_ me? So I know not to do it again?”

Derek shoved his head against Stiles’ knees a couple of times, before Stiles finally got the hint and turned around with a sigh. He didn’t see what the big deal was. It wasn’t that he wanted to see Derek naked—no, scratch that, he definitely wanted to see Derek naked. Or wearing wet clothing that clung to his body. Either one. But still, it seemed dumb that now was the time Derek would pretend to possess modesty.

He heard Derek growl again before he turned back to human. His voice echoed against the tile walls when he finally spoke. “Are you _trying_ to get me arrested?”

“No, I’m trying to get you to talk to me,” Stiles said, turning around.

He still wasn’t prepared to see Derek glaring at him with his arms crossed over his chest, his jeans in a crumpled pile on the ground next to him.

“Turn back around,” he growled, before turning around and bending down to pick up his jeans.

Stiles was pretty sure his brain had just fried. That _ass_. If Derek’s abdomens were a gift from heaven above, then those thighs must be a work of the devil, or something, because _damn_. Really, just, Derek’s everything. But especially seeing his thigh muscles tremble and his back pull taut as he reached down—

“Stiles,” Derek said, but his voice sounded a lot less like an angry reprimand and more like fond exasperation. 

“S-sorry,” Stiles said, and whirled around to face the wall. _God_ , he needed to get it together, and fast, before Derek could smell—oh, shit, Derek could already smell his hormones going crazy, that’s probably why he’d said his name in that weird soft tone, it was because he felt _bad_ for Stiles and his stupid crush. Stiles was going to die. Was dying of embarrassment a thing? He should look it up when he got home.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when a hand landed on his shoulder. “Stop thinking.” Derek sounded almost sad when he said it, not angry like Stiles had been expecting. Stiles turned to face him, and Derek was wearing his soaked jeans, but they weren’t zipped or buttoned. He could see Derek’s pubic hair curling above the vee of the fly.

“I’ll stop avoiding you,” Derek said, pulling his hands away, and Stiles finally remembered how to breathe as he tore his gaze back up to Derek’s face. “But you can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Stiles asked, and even though he genuinely had no idea what Derek had been talking about, because, hello, half naked supernaturally hot werewolf standing in front of him, apparently that had been the wrong thing to say because Derek’s expression closed off.

“I don’t care if you think it’s funny, _Stiles_ ,” he said, biting down on Stiles’ name as though it were an insult, “but my body is not a tool, or a toy, or a means to an end.”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Derek’s frown deepened. “Forget it,” he said, and turned towards the locker room door.

“Derek, stop,” Stiles said, and nearly tripped over himself in his haste to get to Derek. “I didn’t. That wasn’t why—”

Derek stopped and brought his hand up to his face, his back still turned to Stiles. But at least he wasn’t running away. Stiles could work with that.

“Look, I only washed your shirt so you wouldn’t know where I’d put it,” he said, reaching into his backpack and retrieving the plastic grocery bag where he’d stashed Derek’s henley.

Derek extricated his still-soaked henley and grimaced as it started dripping onto his arm. “As much as I enjoy wearing wet clothing, I think I’ll pass,” he said, turning to leave with his shirt balled up in one fist.

“Wait!” Stiles said, stripping off his outer flannel and then pulling his t-shirt over his head. “Just. This is one of my favorite shirts, so you better not rip it or get blood on it or something.” He held it out to Derek in offering.

Derek turned to look at Stiles, and then his gaze fell to stare at the shirt clutched in his hand. Or, he was looking at something in that general vicinity. His eyes didn’t look focused.

“What?” Stiles asked, not able to hide the touch of impatience in his voice. He shook the shirt in his hand for emphasis. “Just take the damn thing.” He bit his lip. “I’d offer you my jeans, but, uh, I don’t think they’d fit.”

Derek swallowed visibly. Stiles tracked the movement of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up, then down.

He was contemplating taking his shirt back when Derek finally reached out and grabbed it. “Fine,” he said, and his voice sounded even more growly than normal. 

Stiles sighed. “Just, come over on Saturday, okay?”

Derek froze, Stiles’ shirt pulled halfway over his head. “What?”

“Don’t make me wait up for you,” Stiles said, refusing to meet Derek’s eyes. For some reason, it felt like he was confessing something. Which was stupid. He just didn’t want to wonder if Derek was coming over, like he had last week. It was annoying to not know, that was all.

Stiles tried not to think about how his hands were shaking when he shoved his arms through his flannel and started buttoning it closed.

He was still staring at his fingers when he heard the locker room door open and then fall shut again.


	4. Unexpected Nerd References (Or: Carry on with your bad self)

Stiles didn’t sleep well the next few nights. He later decided that sleep exhaustion was the only reason that he didn’t hear his window opening on Saturday morning.

In fact, he didn’t notice anything was amiss until a suspicious shadow fell over his monitor.

“Stiles.”

Stiles would like to state, for the record, that his screaming was very _manly_ and not at all high-pitched.

Somehow he managed to hit the back of his head on the corner of his desk in his attempt to flail away from Derek, and now he was sitting sprawled out on the floor of his room, his tailbone throbbing and a sharp stabbing pain in his temple. He prodded his skull gingerly with his fingers, wincing when he encountered what was sure to turn into a nasty bump.

“Are you okay?” Derek squatted in front of him, one hand tentatively reaching for Stiles’ head before pulling back and balling into a fist.

“No,” Stiles croaked. “Way to give a guy warning.”

“You said I should come over on Saturday,” Derek said, and was that amusement in his voice? Stiles couldn’t really see his expression through the tears. “So I came.”

“This is cruel and unusual,” Stiles said, pushing himself to his feet while clinging to the desk for support. “You know how sensitive my fragile human anatomy is.”

Derek straightened with Stiles and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah?”

“Dude, I can’t with your eyebrows, just, put those away,” he said, waving his hands in Derek’s general direction. Said eyebrows contorted several times before settling into Derek’s standard exasperated frown.

Stiles was halfway to approaching calm when a horrible thought occurred to him. “Wait, is my dad home? Did he just hear me fall over? Because I do not need him to come up here. And I definitely don’t want to cover for you lurking in my room. _Again_ , oh my god.”

Derek just sighed and nudged Stiles towards the bed, placing the flat of his palm between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “Your dad left about twenty minutes ago.” 

“Oh,” Stiles said, his shoulders slumping.

Derek’s tone was long-suffering as he added, “I’m not an idiot, Stiles.”

“I beg to differ!” Stiles twisted to glare at Derek as he was pushed gently onto the foot of his bed. “I have seen plenty of evidence otherwise.”

Derek rolled his eyes and sat down on the bed next to him, pulling off his shirt and tossing it into the corner.

Stiles felt his entire body freeze. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Getting undressed.” Derek paused in thumbing open the button on his fly. “Is there a problem?”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. “Nope, nuh-uh, no problem whatsoever. Carry on. With your bad self.”

Derek snorted and the bed dipped under Stiles’ weight. Stiles heard the rustle of the covers shifting, and then he felt a cold damp pressure slip up his shirt and nudge his side.

“Derek, stop,” Stiles complained, blinking his eyes back open, to see that Derek, now in full wolf form, was nosing under his t-shirt with a far-too-amused expression on his face. “Don’t make me get the spray bottle.”

Derek huffed and laid his head on Stiles’ thigh, ears flicking back, and, huh.

That was sort of…nice.

Stiles shoved Derek off his lap and crawled up onto the bed to reclaim his pillow, lying curled on his side facing Derek, his back to the wall. Derek rolled over so his belly was facing Stiles, and his muzzle was tucked up against Stiles’ chest. Stiles settled a hand into the fur at the scruff of Derek’s neck. “This okay?”

Derek just shut his eyes and nuzzled into the other side of Stiles’ pillow. Well then. Apparently this was a thing now. Stiles was strangely okay with that.

***

Stiles didn’t fall asleep. Derek seemed to drift off almost immediately, but he probably didn’t get enough sleep these days anyway. Stiles could sympathize.

Instead, Stiles let his fingers tangle in Derek’s fur, and tried to piece together the weird turn their friendship had taken in the past few months.

Because it was definitely friendship, by now. Stiles wasn’t really sure what to call it, but they were no longer just acquaintances who begrudgingly saved each other from supernatural fatalities. He spent almost as much time with Derek as with Scott these days—more, if you counted the time spent just the two of them, running around in the woods, or eating sandwiches side-by-side. He didn’t talk to Derek much, but it was enough, some days, to just…be.

Stiles slipped out of bed after about ten minutes, his mind unable to focus on anything, and managed to crawl over Derek without waking him. He tried to work on his history assignment, but his eyes kept drifting back to the sleeping form on his bed, tail twitching in sleep. After an hour, he gave up and wandered down to the kitchen to fix a snack.

He pulled a second plate out of the cabinet after a moment’s hesitation. After all, werewolves had to eat, too. With the two sandwiches balanced in his arms, he trudged up the stairs and bumped open the door to his room using his hip. 

Derek was back to human form, facing towards the wall, where Stiles had been. He was tangled up in the sheets, and his hair was mussed. He looked oddly young. 

Stiles couldn’t help staring. 

Stiles shook his head and set the second sandwich on the floor next to his bed. Taking a moment to collect himself, he settled in his desk chair, put on his headphones, and opened up Netflix, looking over the martial arts B-movies. He was in the mood for some good old-fashioned butt-kicking.

When he glanced back at the bed, half an hour into Twin Dragons, Derek was awake and staring at him.

Stiles froze in his seat. He could practically hear David Attenborough’s narration. _Here we see the werewolf in its natural environment. Watch as it stalks its prey. Through the use of its intimidating eyebrows, it paralyzes its victim before going in for the kill._

“Stiles,” Derek mouthed, and Stiles realized he still had on his headphones. 

He knocked them off to rest on the back of his neck and forced a grin. “Yo. Sup.”

“Is this yours?” Derek asked, his voice still scratchy with sleep. He slid one hand out from under the covers to point down at the floor. 

“My floor?” Stiles frowned at Derek. Someone wasn’t making sense here, and for once it wasn’t Stiles.

“The sandwich,” Derek said, his flat tone and equally flat eyebrows indicating how not amused he was.

“Sandwi—” Stiles said. “Oh! Sandwich!” He leaned over to see the sandwich he’d left on the floor, now looking a little soggy. Roast beef did tend to damage the structural integrity of the bread. “Yeah, that’s. I made it.”

“I figured as much,” Derek said.

“It’s for you,” Stiles added, and Derek blinked.

He stared at Stiles for a long moment before sitting up in bed and reaching down for the plate, the sheets falling down to pool in his lap (and, hngh, Derek’s abs were truly a _work of art_ ).

Stiles was about to turn back to the movie when he heard Derek murmur, “Thanks.”

Stiles craned his head back to look, but Derek’s eyes were fixed firmly on the sandwich.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “No problem.”

It felt like he had just settled in his chair and pushed _play_ on the video player when Derek cleared his throat behind him. “Can you toss me my jeans.”

“Wait, was that a request?” Stiles blinked, glancing back to the bed before removing his headphones and pausing the movie playback. “I thought you were only capable of issuing demands. I mean, your intonation could use a little work, but—”

Stiles turned around at the sound of Derek’s growl. Derek was propped up on his elbows, the sheets pooling at his waist, and Stiles realized that this was the hottest person he was ever going to have naked in his bed. It should have been a disappointing thought, but all Stiles could think was _Derek Hale’s penis is touching my bed sheets. Derek Hale is sitting where I jerk off in the mornings. My pillow is going to smell like Derek Hale when I go to bed tonight._

Derek cleared his throat, and when Stiles’ gaze snapped back up to his face, he was avoiding eye contact and a rosy flush was rising to his cheeks.

“Shit, sorry,” Stiles choked out. Not for the first time, he cursed the werewolf ability to smell boners. “Your jeans, I’ll just, uh. Grab those.”

He scrambled over to Derek’s crumpled pile of clothing and tossed them in the direction of his bed. He bit his lip before turning back to look as Derek moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so that there was just a thin strip of cotton stretched over his lap, and started pulling the jeans on one leg at a time.

“Stiles,” he said, but his voice sounded more tired than anything, and when Stiles looked up, the corner of his mouth was quirked upward.

“I’m not objectifying you,” Stiles said. “I mean, like, your body is pretty rad, I’m not gonna lie, but it’s not that. Like, I know that’s not all that you are, and I just want you to know that I like you for your mind, okay? Well, maybe like is a little strong, I mean, we’re sort of friends now but that’s mostly a running around tripping each other thing and not a deep intellectual conversations at two in the morning thing, not that I actually have anyone I can talk to at two in the morning. I mean, there’s Scott, but he’s usually asleep or only capable of talking about Kira and her perfect lips or whatever, which is seriously super sappy and makes me want to vomit, and—”

“Stiles!” Derek was holding his face in one palm, in a classic Jean Luc Picard imitation. “Please stop before you sprain something.” He dropped his hand and glared. “Like your jaw.”

“Way to facepalm, Captain Picard,” Stiles snapped, his face going hot.

“I don’t drink Earl Grey,” Derek snarked back.

Stiles felt his jaw drop. “Did you just…was that a…”

Derek rolled his eyes and finished fastening the button on his jeans, pulling the bed sheets out of his lap and standing up.

Stiles sprang out of his chair. “You did not just make a Next Gen reference and then casually shrug it off, dude, that is _not cool_ , you can’t just do something sexy and not expect me to notice—”

Derek’s face twitched, and his mouth curled up as though he’d bitten down on something sour. “What?”

“You’ve seen Star Trek Next Gen, don’t lie!” Stiles shouted, waving his finger accusingly in Derek’s face.

Derek’s expression cleared and his shoulders relaxed. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at Stiles. “Believe it or not, my family had a television set when I was growing up.”

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles said, mirroring Derek’s posture. “You’ve never gotten any of my references up to now.”

Derek grinned, flashing his teeth in a move that would have made a lesser man than Stiles swoon. “That’s because you never referenced anything _good_ before.”

“You take that back,” Stiles said, shoving against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek just shook his head and leaned down to pick up his shirt, pulling it over his head. Stiles tried not to stare too obviously as his pectoral muscles flexed.

“I think you just have terrible taste,” Stiles managed to stutter out, forcing his gaze away from Derek’s biceps.

Derek grunted, a noncommittal noise, as he tugged his shirt firmly into place. “No, you’re right,” he said, a thoughtful expression on his face, and Stiles frowned at him. 

“I’m…right?” Stiles prompted, when it looked like Derek wasn’t going to explain.

“I do have terrible taste.” Derek cocked his head. “I’m friends with you, after all.”

“Oh, snap,” Stiles said, not letting himself think too long on the soft smile curving Derek’s lips, or the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m hurt, Derek, I really am.”

For a second, Stiles thought Derek was starting to sway closer to him, but then Derek’s soft smile was suddenly wiped clean, replaced by a carefully blank expression. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair, then,” Derek said, glancing over at the window.

“You—really?” Stiles bit his lip. 

Derek just pursed his mouth as he slipped on his shoes.

“I mean.” Stiles winced. “Yeah, you should get out of here before my dad gets home, right?” He tugged at the hem of his shirt, not meeting Derek’s eyes. He was an idiot. 

Derek was way out of his league, and the last thing Stiles needed was another Lydia. Getting a crush on him was the worst idea in a sea of bad ideas.

“See you on Wednesday, Stiles,” Derek said, his voice strangely subdued. The window creaked shut and when Stiles looked back up, the room was empty.


	5. Gone Missing (Or: Scott is the worst)

After practice on Wednesday, Derek wasn’t waiting in his usual spot. Stiles frowned into the trees and fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket. He thumbed over to Scott’s image and held the phone up to his ear. The phone clicked through after the second ring.

“Have you seen Derek today?” Stiles blurted, not bothering with formalities.

“No?” Scott sounded just as confused as Stiles, so, okay then. “Should I have?”

Stiles bit his lip, turning back towards the lacrosse field and leaning back against the nearest tree trunk. “He’s not in our normal spot.”

“Sorry, man, I have no idea where he is. I haven’t talked to him in the past couple weeks.”

“Don’t you have some link to him, since he’s your beta?”

“Uh,” Scott paused. “He’s not my beta.”

“He’s not?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. We never really talked about it.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Stiles sighed, combing a hand through his hair. “Look, how far away from the school are you? Can you do your scent tracking thing again? I’m not going to dunk his clothes in the shower this time, I just…”

Stiles knew it was stupid, but something felt off. Derek had said, specifically, that he would see Stiles on Wednesday. He shouldn’t be avoiding him. It made no sense.

“Man, can it wait until tomorrow? I have to study for our econ test—”

“I’ll help you study, just, can you make sure he’s…”

Scott hummed. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Just get back here, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Stiles stared down at the phone in his hands. Maybe he should have told Scott where to meet him, or—

“Boo,” Scott said, from just behind Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles may have jumped, but at least he didn’t shriek. Much. “Jesus, dude,” he said, stumbling backward and clutching at his chest, “you scared the crap outta me!”

Scott just sniggered as he slung an arm across Stiles’ shoulders. “Worried about your boyfriend?” he teased.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Stiles said, shooting him a glare as his heartbeat returned to normal.

“Not yet,” Scott said, and stopped to sniff the air pointedly. He frowned. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” Stiles said, his heart rate ratcheting back up again. “Oh my god, is he dead? What is it? Do you smell blood?”

“Shut up,” Scott said, smacking Stiles in the shoulder. “He’s not dead, the smell is just super faint. Like he hasn’t been here in a few days.”

“Oh.”

Scott’s expression turned serious and he cocked his head to the side. “I think it’s still strong enough for me to track down his clothes, though.” He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale.

“Anything?” Stiles asked.

Scott blinked his eyes open before flashing Stiles a toothy grin and ambling off into the trees.

Stiles trailed after him, the worried knot in his stomach loosening up a bit. If Scott could still smell something, and he wasn’t worried, Derek was probably fine. Maybe he just fell asleep or something and didn’t wake up in time to meet Stiles.

Scott paused in front of a hollowed out tree. “Huh,” he said, and Stiles’ knot of nerves returned.

“Huh isn’t good, Scotty, I don’t like the sound of huh, please explain the huh.”

Scott crouched down and passed Stiles a shirt and jeans from the inside of the tree trunk. “It’s probably nothing,” he hedged, once he had straightened up and brushed the dirt off his knees.

Stiles flicked him in the temple. “I know you, Scott, and I know when you’re lying. ‘Fess up.”

Scott sighed and turned to face him. “The scent on his clothes is really faint. I’d say he hasn’t touched them in a few days.”

“A few—a few _days_? Are you saying that Derek is wandering around naked somewhere?”

“Stiles—”

“This is a legitimate concern, there could be _traumatized children_ out there who have seen Derek’s private parts, I happen to know, I was one of them—”

“He’s probably just shifted,” Scott said, shrugging.

Stiles frowned. “Wait, for several days? Can he really stay shifted that long?”

Scott furrowed his brow at Stiles. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t he be able to?”

“I don’t know how this stuff works! You guys don’t tell me anything! For all I know, you turn into wolves by sacrificing virgins at midnight on a full moon!”

“You’re being dumb, Stiles,” Scott said. “Anyway, I found his clothes, can you help me study for econ now?”

Stiles stared down at the shirt and jeans now clenched in his fist, and resisted the urge to hold them up to his nose and see if he could smell Derek on them the way Scott could. He kneeled to place them back in the tree trunk and stood, cracking his neck. “Why aren’t you worried about this?”

“Derek’s a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine,” Scott said. “I mean, we haven’t had any creepy crawlies in this neck of the wood for months. He’s gotten better about talking to me about stuff. And he’d send a text if he needed help, right?”

Stiles just nodded and tried not to think about whether Derek could text Scott using his claws.

Scott sighed. “He probably just wanted some space, dude.”

Stiles felt something in his stomach twist. “Wha—really?”

“Yeah, I mean, not everyone is in constant need of bro-time,” Scott said, gesturing towards his own chest and grinning. “I’m an exception.”

Stiles hoped his smile wasn’t betraying the stabbing feeling in his back. “Yeah, of course. Maybe I’ll see him next week.”

“Great!” Scott said. “Let’s study at your house. I think Isaac is making out with some secret girlfriend at mine.”

“Secret girlfriend?” Stiles asked, intrigued despite himself. Mysteries were his forte. He could crack this one in no time. “Don’t you want to know who it is, though?”

“I’ll leave that in your capable hands,” Scott said, grinning as he led them towards the parking lot.

***

“Cut it out,” Scott said two hours later, as he whacked Stiles in the back of the head with his econ textbook.

Stiles glared at his best friend and rubbed the bump as it started to form. “That was entirely unwarranted.”

“Stop checking your phone every three seconds, then.”

Stiles resisted the urge to flail and pointedly did _not_ look down at where his cell phone was resting silently on the bedspread next to him. “I’m not.”

Scott snorted. “Just call him if you’re so worried.”

Stiles snuck a glance down at his phone, which was unhelpfully silent. “We don’t really…call each other,” he admitted.

“Seriously?” Scott wrinkled his nose and waved his hand towards Stiles’ bed. “You’re not on calling terms, but you still sleep together?”

“Wha—” Stiles’ eyes widened at the implication. “We do not!”

“Your bed has Derek’s smell all over it, dude,” Scott said. “You can’t tell me you don’t know him well enough to leave a text asking what’s up.”

Stiles bristled. “That’s a total invasion of privacy. Not cool.”

“What? It’s not like I’m speculating on your sex life, I’m just saying, you’re hanging out with him all the time and he’s spent a ton of time in your bedroom lately, I just assumed—”

“And you know what they say about assumptions!”

“Dude, it’s not a big deal. I’m just glad you’re finally over Lydia.” He paused. “It’s not like I smelled his jizz or something. Unless…you haven’t had _sex_ with him, have you?”

“No!”

Scott frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Because I can’t believe you’d lose your virginity and not even tell me—”

“Whoah, man, no. My virtue is intact, my innocence preserved. No hands but my own have touched the jewels,” Stiles said, pointing at his crotch.

“Uh, unless you count that time in seventh grade,” Scott said, the tips of his ears turning red.

Stiles frowned. “Hey, I thought we agreed to never speak about that. Ever.”

“I’m just saying,” Scott said.

Stiles sighed. “No one has touched this while I was aroused, okay? No one has laid hands on me _while hard_.”

“Not even Heather?”

Stiles was silent for a moment, looking down at his lap, where his hands were plucking at the hem of his shirt. “We didn’t get that far.”

Scott’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “Sucks.”

“Yeah.” Stiles looked up, only to see Scott staring at him with a concerned expression.

Scott spun around once in the computer chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “So you and Derek aren’t a thing?”

“No,” Stiles said, breathing out a sigh of relief. Finally.

“But you _want_ to be,” Scott said, and the grin on his face was pure evil.

Stiles felt his neck and ears flush hot. “Oh my god, Scott, _shut up_!”

Scott just waggled his eyebrows in response to Stiles’ obvious pain.

Scott was the worst.

***

“Seriously, Stiles, I give up.”

Stiles jerked his head back up from where he’d been staring longingly at his silent cell phone. “What?” He zeroed in on the econ textbook spread open on the bed next to him. “Come on, GDP isn’t that difficult a concept.”

“I’m not giving up on the test,” Scott said, thumping one hand on top of the textbook and probably wrinkling the pages, which was totally uncool of him. “I’m giving up on _you_!” He rolled his eyes and stood, shuffling his papers into a pile and slipping them into the front compartment of his backpack. “You’re obsessing about Derek.” He pointed a finger accusingly in Stiles’ direction. “Again!”

Stiles threw his pencil at Scott’s face, but the guy just caught it without even blinking. “Am not,” Stiles said, fully aware of the petulant whine in his own voice. “You have no proof of that. It’s all circumstantial evidence, at best.”

Scott grumbled something about being better off studying with Kira as he slung his backpack over his shoulders. “Just call your boyfriend already.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Stiles shouted, then realized Scott was just using that as a distraction tactic. “You will pay for ditching me for Kira, you traitor! Way to violate the bro code.”

Scott just smiled at Stiles lopsidedly. “Yeah huh. Because spending the entire time we’re together staring at your phone and thinking about Derek is totally cool, but me actually wanting to get some studying done without smelling your anxiety is a violation.”

Stiles chucked his pillow at Scott’s head. “Take that back, I do not smell.”

Scott grinned. “You so do, dude. You _reek_.”

“I smell like daisies and flowers!” Stiles said, looking around the bed for more things to throw at Scott. “And manly things. Like cactuses. Cacti? And squid ink, did you know that’s an ice cream flavor in Japan?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at school, Stiles.”

“Traitor!” Stiles yelled at Scott’s retreating back as he ducked out the window, jumped onto the lawn, and walk over to the front porch to start up his motorcycle. Come to think of it, why did even Scott use the window? Were werewolves allergic to front doors, or something? “Use the front door next time!”

Scott waved at Stiles cheerfully as he sped away into the night.

Stiles chanced another glance at his phone.

Nope, still silent.

***

It took a little over twenty four hours before Stiles finally broke down and decided to text Derek.

_Hey. This is Stiles. You probably knew that, but, it’s polite to say it, right? And you know how I’m a gentleman. Anyway I was just checking to see what’s up, since_

Stiles felt his expression pinch as he stared at the red numbers on his phone. Stupid character limit.

_Yo. Stiles here. In case I’m not in your address book or something. Just thought I’d clarify. Anyway, I was wondering where you were yesterday since you said you’d_

Nope. Deleted.

_Where were you yesterday? You said you’d see me on Wednesday, right? I’m not hallucinating things? This is Stiles by the way._

Stiles pressed send and then spent about ten seconds intensely regretting his decision.

_Not that I’m worried or anything. I mean, you can do your thing. I’m not your keeper._

Nope, that just made things worse.

_That wasn’t a dog joke._

Stiles groaned out loud. The only way to fix this disaster would be to call Derek. And hope he was capable of more than growls. To be fair, he didn’t need to be stuck in wolf form for that to be an issue.

Stiles found himself pacing back and forth across the carpet as he selected Derek Sourwolf from his contacts list and tapped the call button, muttering to himself as he waited for the call to connect. “Hey Derek. Hi, Derek. How’s it going? Derek, my man. Derek. Dude. This is Stiles. Stiles. ‘Sup, it’s Stiles here. Stiles, I know I don’t normally call, but—” His ramblings were cut off by the click of Derek’s voice mailbox message.

“You have reached the voice mail box of—” There was a long pause, followed by a cough, and Stiles felt hysterical laughter bubbling up through his chest. “Derek.” Another pause. “Hale.” The woman’s cheerful computer voice resumed. “The person you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone—”

Stiles jabbed the end call button. Okay, so. Derek’s phone had gone straight to voicemail. Big deal. Maybe he was using it.

Or maybe it was dead in a ditch somewhere, tossed in the dirt, Derek’s lifeless body sprawled out next to it—

He tried dialing a couple more times. Just a couple. Not, like, five times, or anything. He wasn’t that desperate.

After the fifth try, as Derek’s probable death became more and more grisly, Stiles grit his teeth and inhaled through his nose. He just needed a voice of reason, someone to talk him out of his paranoid visions. He flipped back to his contacts list and selected his third most frequently contacted number, bringing the phone up to his ear as it rang through and trying not to hyperventilate.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice was still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. Uh. Hi.”

“Did someone die?” Lydia was starting to take on her typical deceptively sweet tone. “Because if not, we are going to have a serious talk about appropriate call times.”

“It’s not that late—”

“Stiles, it’s almost one in the morning, and you know how I feel about getting my beauty sleep. What did you _want_.”

“Derek’s missing.”

Lydia let out the longest suffering sigh Stiles had ever heard come out of her mouth. “And I care because…?”

“I think something might have happened to him.”

“And what am I supposed to do about that?”

Stiles glared at a brown stain on the wall, hoping his annoyance would somehow transmit across the cell phone towers. “You’re the genius, I don’t know!”

This time, Lydia’s sigh sounded almost fond. “Stiles.”

“Don’t Stiles me.”

“Don’t call me past midnight,” she said, and hung up on him.

***

Stiles dialed Isaac next. “Hey,” he said, dragging out the vowel. “Isaac, my man. What’s shaking?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “What?” Isaac mumbled sleepily.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Derek was, would you? Like, I mean, you have this alpha-beta bond, or at least you used to, whatever, so I was wondering if you had some sort of special bond that would let you feel if the other was in danger. Like, can you feel him with your wolfy senses? I just, you would know if he was dead, right?”

“Uh.”

“Is Derek dead?”

“I don’t—what are you talking about?”

“Oh, my god, are you always this incoherent when you first wake up?” Stiles snapped, letting his anger get the best of him. “I didn’t see Derek today, you’re like his best friend or whatever, well, okay, maybe not. I guess he’s closer to Scott these days, but I already talked to Scott, and—”

“Hang on,” Isaac said, and then there was some muffled talking in the background.

“Did you just put me on _hold_?” Stiles didn’t know whether to be enraged or impressed.

There was a scraping sound and then Stiles froze when a familiar voice crackled through the ear piece. “Stiles,” Lydia said, a little breathless, “what did I tell you about calling me after midnight.”

“What are you doing with _Isaac_?” Stiles blurted, before his eyes widened. “Oh my god—no, cancel that, abort, abort! I don’t want to know!”

“Call me again and find out,” Lydia said, and then hung up.

***

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Stiles just hoped Scott hadn’t spent the night at Kira’s. He’d gotten enough terrible mental images from talking to Isaac and Lydia.

“Scott, bro,” Stiles said as soon as Scott had picked up the line and grunted something unintelligible in acknowledgment. “I called Derek and he’s not answering his phone.”

Scott made a whining noise. “Stiles. It’s 1:30. I have school tomorrow, and so do you. Can we talk about this in, like, seven hours? Please?”

“What if he’s hurt, Scott? What if he’s dying?”

“Stiles…”

“Would you wait until the next day if I were missing, possibly hurt?”

Scott groaned. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“He’s probably fine,” Scott said, but Stiles could recognize the edge of doubt creeping into his tone, and resisted the urge to launch into a victory cheer.

“I know,” he said instead. “But I don’t want to risk it.”

“I’ll be over in twenty.”

Apparently Stiles’ fist pump was not as silent as he’d thought, because Scott started laughing.


	6. Sleep Deprivation (Or: Give my love to Rosebud)

Stiles was ready when Scott stuck his head in the window, and he turned away from his laptop as Scott tumbled into his bedroom. “Okay,” Stiles said, “so most of the research I found on full wolf transformations is total bull, and we’re not even going into the really weird fetish porn I—”

“Stiles,” Scott said, his voice coming out in a growl. “What are you even talking about?”

“Well, I figured, maybe Derek got _stuck_ this way without realizing it, sorta how Malia was a werecoyote for, what, eight years? Like, what says he’ll ever turn back on his own if he doesn’t want to? Malia’s grief pretty much prevented her from turning back to human, so maybe Derek’s the same. I figured it’d be a decent starting place, if nothing else.”

Scott blinked at him, then yawned.

“For some reason I feel like you’re not taking me completely seriously here, man.”

“It’s two in the morning, Stiles,” Scott pointed out, a lopsided smile on his face. “If I weren’t taking you seriously, I’d be in bed right now.” He raised his eyebrows. “Asleep.”

“Fine, whatever,” Stiles said, choosing to ignore his best friend’s pointed look. “If Derek’s stuck in wolf form, doesn’t that mean you can turn him back to human, the way you did with Malia?”

Scott’s expression clouded. “I don’t know if that would work on Derek. I can’t, like, growl him into submission.”

“Why not? He’s a beta, you’re an alpha; isn’t that how this stuff works?”

“We knew where Malia was, though.” Scott pursed his lips.

Stiles sighed. “And we don’t know where Derek is. Which is the problem in the first place.”

“Well, how hard can it be to track him down?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one with the wolfy powers.”

Scott frowned. “I found his clothes by the lacrosse field okay. But Beacon Hills is pretty big. We need to narrow it down somehow.”

Stiles nodded even as he felt his stomach clench in worry. Derek would probably be safe from hunters, but there were other things out there that he might not be able to avoid. Those stupid traps Malia’s dad had planted could snap on his leg while running. He could get attacked by wildlife in the preserve or hit by a car. Or he could be captured by animal control. Stiles had spent the past three days compulsively running through possible scenarios, and most of them ended up with Derek’s painful mutilation or death.

Scott’s hand settled over Stiles’ shoulder, snapping him out of his rather morbid imaginings. “I’m sure he’s fine, Stiles,” he said, his voice soft. “Why don’t you just ask Deaton? He has location voodoo stuff, right?”

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Location voodoo?”

“Yeah, his magical emissary powers,” Scott said, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “Look, you can drop me off at work tomorrow afternoon, just come in with me and ask him.”

Stiles nodded, but the sharp pinched feeling in his chest didn’t go away. “There has to be something I can do, though. Something non-supernatural, you know? Like, I don’t know, we could post missing dog flyers around the neighborhood. _Large black wolf, color changing eyes, responds to Sourwolf._ ”

Scott snorted. “Yeah, that’ll go over well.”

Stiles grinned. “Or, like, we could pull some psychoanalysis shit and figure out where Derek would go when he’s feeling crappy. Isn’t there a basement torture dungeon somewhere in the Hale house?”

“Dude,” Scott said. “He’s not going to go to the place where he was tortured. He’s probably going to places that are familiar to him, where he feels safe.”

“Great,” Stiles sighed. “Now we just have to figure out where Derek-the-wolf goes when he needs an emotional boost.”

“He comes _here_ , doesn’t he?” Scott’s eyes brightened and his mouth twisted into a smile.

Stiles felt his cheeks heat up. “Not while I’m here, he hasn’t. Lately. That I know of.”

Scott’s nose crinkled up in disgust before his expression cleared. “Does your dad still keep cameras in your room?”

Stiles nodded, tilting his head to the side in thought. “Yeah, but he hasn’t been using ‘em lately, since no one needs to see recorded footage of my solo time.” Though if he _did_ have footage of that— “Do you think that would count as one of those leaked sex tapes that I could post on youtube and get famous?”

Scott looked vaguely nauseated. “Ew, no.”

“Sorry, Scott,” Stiles said, collapsing in his desk chair and opening the lid of his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. “No more talk of Stiles’ private time.” He turned to waggle his eyebrows at Scott. “But I can see where you’re going with this. Are you ready to set a trap for the big bad wolf?”

“Set a trap?” Scott stared at him, a crease between his brows and his lips down-turned at the corners. “What are you even talking about? I was just going to say that you could turn on the cameras.”

Stiles sighed noisily even as he pulled up the security camera control program. “Oh my god, _yes_ , I was going to turn on the cameras. But that sounds way less cool, Scotty, get with the program already.”

“Whatever,” Scott said, rolling his eyes. “It’s two in the morning, I’m allowed. Chill.”

“Chill?” Stiles asked, frowning. “Do you even know me? I thought you were my best bro here, you should know by now that chilling is not a thing I do at the best of times, and I’m definitely not going to chill right now, when Derek is possibly in danger—”

“I’m going to bed,” Scott interrupted. “Wake me up if you need anything,” he added helpfully, before collapsing on Stiles’ bed, stomach side down, and drooling softly onto Stiles’ comforter.

“What? No! You’re the worst.”

“Love you too,” Scott mumbled into Stiles’ pillow.

Stiles frowned at his best friend, lying boneless on the bed, and considered the pros and cons of shoving him onto the floor. On the one hand, Stiles wouldn’t get much sleep without the use of his bed. On the other hand, Scott looked pretty adorable even with his face mashed into the bedspread and his mouth half open, and who was Stiles to mess with that?

“Apparently my bed is just a werewolf magnet,” Stiles muttered under his breath as he settled back in his desk chair. “Does it look like a two person bed? Because it does not _feel_ like one. But no, go right ahead, take up the whole bed, it’s not like I was planning to sleep tonight, or anything. Hotel Stiles is the number one werewolf friendly establishment in Beacon Hills. Try the veal.”

Unfortunately, Stiles’ audience had just started to snore. Stiles gave Scott one last look, his mouth curling into a smile despite himself, before turning back to his computer screen.

***

By the time Stiles’ alarm went off the next morning, Stiles had about twenty tabs open in his browser, a text notification alert set up to both his and Scott’s phones in case of detected movement during school hours, and gigantic bags under his eyes. Scott smacked the snooze button with one hand before rolling over and blinking sleepily at Stiles. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you.”

“Eh,” Stiles said, waving a hand in Scott’s general direction. “I was busy.”

“Please tell me you didn’t take any extra Adderall to stay up.”

“What? No.” Stiles narrowed his eyes at the computer screen. Scott was trying to distract him from something very important, now what was it?

Scott appeared over his shoulder, yawning widely and running one hand through his hair. “Why are you looking up Chupacabras?”

“Uh…” Stiles said. “I think I wanted to make sure Derek didn’t start eating goats.”

Scott just tugged on Stiles’ shirt collar. “I’m hungry. Let’s go find your dad’s hidden stash of pop tarts.”

***

Stiles only got reprimanded by two teachers for falling asleep in class. Coach seemed to take vindictive delight in blowing his referee whistle right in Stiles’ ear to wake him up.

Even Danny commented on how tired he looked.

Scott, on the other hand, looked obnoxiously bushy-eyed and bright-tailed, or whatever the hell morning people were supposed to look like. But Stiles resisted the urge to murder Scott, because he was an awesome best friend that way.

The first text alert came in during his biology class. Mrs. Martin was saying something about DNA encoding when Stiles felt the buzz in his pocket, and noticed Scott tensing up in his seat at the same time.

He immediately raised his hand and blurted “I need to go to the bathroom!”

Mrs. Martin narrowed her eyes at him. “No.”

Stiles tried checking his phone under his seat, but Mrs. Martin came over and snatched it away from him. “No texts either, Mr. Stilinski,” she said, a sharp edge in her voice, before smiling a little too widely and returning to the differences between molecular biology and evolutionary development.

Stiles did not stab himself in the eye with his pencil from sheer frustration, but it was a close call.

“Scott,” he hissed, leaning back in his chair. He batted his eyelashes as Mrs. Martin turned away from the chalkboard and squinted at him suspiciously. “Code blue. I repeat, code blue.”

Scott snorted.

Stiles turned fully around to glare at Scott in the seat behind him. “Oh my god, we went over this like five times. Red is for Derek sighting, yellow is for parental interference.” He rolled his eyes. “Blue means _check your stupid phone_.”

Scott’s eyes widened comically at a point just past Stiles’ shoulder, and a loud throat clearing noise echoed behind him. “Mr. Stilinski. Either turn around and pay attention, or you’ll be spending the afternoon shelving library books.”

“Yes ma’am, turning around right now,” Stiles said, snapping upright. Greenberg frowned at him from the front row. Suck up.

***

Scott kicked at Stiles’ sneakers as they exited the classroom. “You know, you could have at least tried to pay attention.”

Stiles simply snatched Scott’s cell phone from his open palm and thumbed through his notifications. “Oh my god, are these all from Kira?”

“Not all of them. Some are from this really weird guy I know, he’s always calling me at one in the morning about his missing boyfriend.”

“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious. A regular comedian.” He paused when he got to the one from his security system. “Here! You got a text at 1:17pm.”

“I don’t see why you can’t just wait to get your own phone back.”

Stiles glared at Scott accusingly as he waited for the video attachment to load. “I need to know if we have a code red on our hands, bro. That cannot wait until lacrosse practice. Besides, Coach threatened me with extra suicides this afternoon since I fell asleep in class today.”

“Twice,” Scott added helpfully.

“Shut up, the second time doesn’t count, I was just resting my eyes.” He let out a crow of triumph when the video finally opened. “Time to face the music, my friend,” he said, and pressed play.

“Isn’t that your dad?” Scott asked, peering from behind Stiles’ shoulder.

“What the—” Stiles frowned down at the screen as his father made a beeline for his hidden stash of Oreos. “Dammit, Dad!”

“Okay, can I have my phone back now?” Scott whined. “I don’t want to be late for Spanish.” Without warning, he plucked his phone out of Stiles’ limp hold.

“No! This is a code _yellow_ , something needs to be done!” He started following Scott into the classroom before his best friend gave him a pointed look. “Oh, shit, how much time do I have before the bell?”

The bell rang as soon as the words were out of Stiles’ mouth. Scott sat down in the back row, a grimace on his face.

Stiles was only five minutes late to trig, so he really didn’t deserve the glare the teacher gave him.

***

He did, however, deserve the detention he got for falling asleep in class. And snoring, apparently.

That didn’t mean he was going to _like_ it.

“Scott,” he whispered into the mouth set of his liberated cell phone. “Scott, you have to go on without me. Be brave.” He clutched at his chest. “Give my love to Rosebud.”

“Rosebud’s a sled,” Scott answered automatically. Stiles smiled to himself. Apparently his classic movie one-liners training was starting to pay off. “You know, when I suggested you drop me off at work, I sort of assumed you’d get me there on time.”

“It’s not like I got detention on purpose,” Stiles said. He tried to put his math teacher’s diabolical smirk out of his mind. That man was a sadist. “Mills is a _sadist_.”

“Yeah he is,” Scott said, because even when he was annoyed with Stiles, he was a good bro. “You could just wait until tomorrow, right?”

“No!” Stiles hissed. “The longer we wait, the more likely that something _horrible_ has happened.”

Scott paused over the line. Stiles could picture his face folding into a worried frown. “I think you’re making a bigger deal of this than it is.”

Stiles was considering how to best tell off Scott for his sudden yet inevitable betrayal when the phone was snatched away from him.

“Who is this? McCall?” Coach shouted into the phone. “Stop talking to Stilinski and start studying for that test on Monday. You need to keep your grades up to stay on as captain.” He paused as he listened to whatever Scott had to say, making the occasional humming noise in response. “Why, thank you, McCall. You’re looking quite handsome yourself. Keep up the good work!” He smiled as he hung up.

Stiles resisted the urge to slam his head into the desk repeatedly, instead just laying his forehead on his folded arms and groaning quietly.

“Charming young man,” Coach said. “Did you know he helped stem the blood loss when I was shot by an arrow?” There was a sharp pressure to the top of Stiles’ head, and he looked up to see Coach staring down at him, his hand still curled up in a loose fist from rapping his knuckles against Stiles’ skull. “Oh, that’s right. You were there, too. Can’t remember you doing anything useful, though.” He tossed the phone back at Stiles and wandered back to his desk.

Stiles stared at it morosely for a few seconds before pulling out his econ textbook.

“Next time you use the phone,” Coach added, not looking up from his desk, “call up the Mexican place. I’m in the mood for tacos.”

***

“I’m late for work,” Scott grumbled, when Stiles burst through the library doors and made a beeline towards his locker.

Stiles beamed in Scott’s general direction as he swung his backpack over his shoulders and stumbled down the corridor. “You’re the best,” he said, narrowly avoiding falling on his face as his sneakers skidded on the linoleum floor.

“Yeah, I know. Are you sure you’re cool to drive?”

“I’ll be fine, I took an extra Adderall right before detention. Plus, you’ll be there to keep me awake.” Stiles’ fingers twisted over the combination lock and he started shoving books in his backpack at random. “As soon as you get off work, you’re helping me look for him, right?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Scott said, a trace of impatience coming through, “for the last time.”

Stiles grinned over at Scott as he slammed his locker shut and started jogging towards the exit. “You won’t regret it, man, you can have my orange juice for the next month.”

“They don’t even sell orange juice any more,” Scott complained. “It’s all apple and cranberry.”

“I’ll smuggle it to school in my hip flask, then.”

Scott clambered in the passenger seat as soon as the doors unlocked. “Remember what happened the last time Harris caught you drinking from that?”

Stiles grinned as he adjusted his mirrors, fastened his seatbelt, and threw the jeep into reverse. “I can still remember the look on his _face_ when I offered him a sip.”

“Well, _I_ remember the week of detention you had, and how you couldn’t come to my house after school for a month after.”

They bickered good-naturedly for the rest of the drive, Stiles’ fingers only occasionally tapping against the steering wheel, his eyes glancing in the rearview for a dark form in the road behind him.


	7. Bonding Ritual (Or: Zero of ten, would not recommend)

Stiles felt his heartbeat ratchet up when Scott ducked through the door to clean out cages, and Stiles was left alone with Deaton.

“Scott tells me you need some help finding Derek,” Deaton said, his voice hushed.

Stiles nodded and ran a hand through his hair out of nervous habit. Deaton was not-smiling in that creepy way of his, and Stiles not-smiled back, stretching his lips without showing his teeth.

Deaton’s not-smile softened a bit. “I don’t have a location spell, per se—”

Stiles winced at the memory of his flailing to Scott earlier about all the cool druid things Deaton could do.

“But,” Deaton added, “I can help you get a better feel for where he’s located—a sort of internal compass, as it were.”

“Okay, yes, let’s do it.”

“There are,” Deaton paused, taking in a deep breath, “certain side effects,” he added, mouth turning down at the corners.

“Side effects?” Stiles stilled, turning to look at Deaton from under raised eyebrows. “What are we talking about here? Like, supernatural possession? That’s a fun one. Don’t really want to do it again, though.”

Deaton shook his head. “No, nothing like that. This is a bonding ritual.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Stiles waited for Deaton to continue his explanation, but, as always, none seemed forthcoming. “Okay,” he said, moving his hands through the air in a slashing motion, “cut it with the cryptic stuff, and just tell me what the freaking side effects are. Will my dick fall off? Will I lose thirty years of my life? Are my descendants going to be cursed by male pattern baldness? Am I going to turn evil and murder everyone I love?” He paused, and raised an eyebrow. “Whoops, tried that one already.”

Deaton’s left eyelid flickered, his facial muscles twitching before relaxing again. “You will feel a physical pull towards Derek’s location for a few days.”

That didn’t sound too bad, Stiles thought. There was probably a catch. “Like, how physical?”

Deaton didn’t even flinch. “There may be some pain involved.”

Stiles grit his teeth. “Fine. Okay. Pain. Sounds dandy. Let’s just do this thing, okay?” He dug in his backpack for the comb, preserved in a sandwich bag, that he’d slipped in the night before after doing some research on druidic location rites. Some of the illustrations had been a little horrifying—Stiles’ personal favorite was the protection rite which had required an entire handful of baby teeth.

“This is Derek’s comb?” Deaton asked as he inspected the bag, holding it up to the light.

“My comb, Derek’s hair,” Stiles corrected, and he didn’t miss the brief widening of Deaton’s eyes before his perfect, implacable mask settled back into place.

“I see,” is all he said, and Stiles reminded himself that the sarcastic comments should probably wait until _after_ Deaton had performed the bonding rite.

Deaton turned back to his shelves of bottled medicines and herbs, silent for a few moments as his eyes flicked up and down. “Hold these,” he said, selecting several bottles and handing them off to Stiles. “Sit on the table,” he added, still not looking at Stiles.

“Okay…” Stiles blinked down at the bottles in his arms, a couple filled with what looked like quartz crystals in different colors, several others with shriveled berries or long dried stems and leaves, a single small jar containing mountain ash, and what looked suspiciously like an appendix floating in formaldehyde. He scrambled onto the operating table, glass vials clutched to his chest, before glancing over to where Deaton was digging into some cabinet. “You want to tell me about this ritual? Please tell me it doesn’t involve an ice bath.”

“It doesn’t involve an ice bath,” Deaton replied as he turned back around.

“Cool.” Stiles tried smiling, but all he could manage was a pinched feeling around his eyes. He tightened his hold on the jars in his arms and wriggled further back onto his perch on the table, his heels beating a staccato rhythm against the side.

Deaton stepped forward, approaching the table slowly with his palms up, as though he were trying to calm a startled wild animal, instead of just boring, human Stiles. He started taking the glass canisters out of Stiles’ arms and setting them gently on the table beside him, small clinks and taps forming the only sound outside of Stiles’ ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart.

“It might be easier if you close your eyes,” Deaton said, gently, though Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Deaton say anything in a way that wasn’t gentle.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles said, and squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to think of all the ways this could go horribly wrong, or all the ways Derek could be dead, or what _exactly_ Deaton had meant by ‘some pain involved.’ The soft rustle of fabric and clink of metal against glass seemed louder than before, making Stiles’ ears throb and filling up his head like cotton, and he absently wondered when he had last taken his Adderall.

He startled forward when he felt a warm hand press against his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Hey,” Scott said.

Stiles relaxed into the touch, and his shaky, shallow breaths started getting deeper.

“I’m here,” Scott said.

Stiles’ hands stopped trembling against the cool metal of the table, and his toes stopped spasming against the fabric of his shoes.

“You’re going to be okay,” Scott said, and Stiles could almost believe it was true.

***

The ritual itself seemed somewhat anticlimactic. First, Deaton made him swallow a chunky mixture that tasted like some sort of combination of feet, gefilte fish, and bile. While Stiles tried not to gag on that, Deaton muttered some recitation in Latin or Welsh or something. He had Stiles close his eyes and picture Derek in his mind’s eye, and _believe_ he could sense his presence. Which, whatever, it sounded suspiciously like that spark thing, but when Stiles’ eyes fluttered back open, Scott was just peering at him with a faintly puzzled expression.

“I don’t feel any different,” Stiles said, trying not to let the panic show in his voice.

Deaton turned and started washing his hands, stained purple, in the sink. “It may take a few hours to take effect,” he said. “You’ll know when you feel it.”

Stiles frowned. “So, what, I’m just supposed to wait until—until when? Am I going to feel some sort of magical tug that points me towards Derek’s location, or…” Stiles trailed off, feeling suddenly exhausted.

Deaton reached for a towel from the metal hook above the sink and dried his hands silently. “It will be easier to experience it yourself than to have me explain it to you.”

“Okay, whatever,” Stiles grumbled, and hopped off the operating table. Or at least, he _tried_ to hop off.

Scott caught him as his knees buckled. “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“Fine,” Stiles said through clenched teeth, his arm muscles shaking as he supported his weight on the tabletop and Scott’s shoulders. His legs felt rubbery. How did that even happen? He hadn’t been sitting long enough to lose the circulation—

Scott grunted as Stiles’ arms gave out as well, and he shifted to fully support Stiles’ weight.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Stiles said.

Deaton walked over to the door and opened it, jerking his head towards Scott. “The muscle weakness should last no more than forty eight hours. Once Stiles regains his strength, he should be able to pinpoint Derek’s approximate location.” He smiled at Scott. “You can make up the hours next week, Scott.”

“Thanks, Dr. Deaton,” Scott said, shifting so that Stiles was being held between his arms like a damsel in distress.

“For the record,” Stiles said as Scott carried him bridal style out the door of the clinic, “I find this whole experience very demeaning. Zero of ten, would not recommend.”

***

Scott carried Stiles up the stairs all the way to his bedroom, because he was a gentleman. Stiles even said so.

“You’re being dumb,” Scott replied, which, _rude_.

“I’m not dumb, I’ve just lost all muscle control,” Stiles said, trying to look dignified as Scott set him on his bedspread, pulled off his shoes, and tugged his shirt back down his stomach. “Just be glad that it only seems to apply to my limbs and not my bowels, too, because that would be both embarrassing and smelly.”

“You’re gross,” Scott said, smiling affectionately.

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Your dad’s on shift tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “So you gonna go to Kira’s place and _study_ , or whatever?”

Scott didn’t even humor that with an eye roll, instead tugging Stiles’ laptop out of his backpack. “Nah. Wanna watch some Supernatural?”

“Hell yeah,” Stiles said, grinning as Scott crawled onto the bed beside him and opened up the computer.

They were halfway through the third episode when Stiles started regaining feeling in his limbs. “Hey,” he said, wiggling his fingers on the bedspread. “Check it out!”

Scott made a noncommittal humming noise, his eyes still glued to the laptop screen. Stiles sighed and let his head thump backwards onto the headboard.

“Ow,” he muttered, but Scott wasn’t paying attention. He waited for the tingly sensation to climb down his spine, through his thighs towards his knees, past his kneecaps, before easing himself out of bed and shifting his weight to his right foot. Tingles climbed up his leg, like blood circulation returning after sitting too long with crossed legs.

“This whole binding ritual thing hasn’t been so bad so far,” Stiles said, shifting to take a step forward. Pain lanced through his left calf, and his leg buckled underneath him. “Motherfu—!” he yelled as he fell face first onto the carpet.

“Dude!” Scott called from above him. “Did you try walking too early?”

Stiles rolled up so he could sit, but there was a sharp, stiff pain radiating out from his shin, and he had to clutch at the side of the bed just to remain upright. “There’s something—oh god.” He gasped as another wave of pain hit, whiting out his vision. “Something wrong with my leg,” Stiles said, frowning down at it. It felt like the time in third grade when he’d fallen out of the oak tree in Scott’s backyard, snapping his fibula. But there was no swelling, no bruising. His leg looked perfectly fine, it just _felt_ broken.

“God dammit, Derek,” Stiles murmured, closing his eyes and focusing on the mantra Deaton had made him repeat at the clinic.

**< Stiles?>**

“Holy shit, that actually _worked_ ,” Stiles said, his mouth dropping open, and then all the breath rushed out of his lungs as the pain in his leg spiked, searing and white hot like torn flesh and blood.

In his mind’s eye, he could almost see Derek tearing open the steel jaw of the trap and reaching down to set his broken leg—

He didn’t realize he’d been screaming until he stopped, his ears ringing, throat raw and chest heaving.

Scott was clutching at his shoulders and looking at him with his big, brown puppy eyes. Still, all Stiles could think about was Derek’s voice, echoing in his head.

 **< What the _hell_ did you do. >** Derek sounded a lot angrier than last time.

 **< Nothing,>** Stiles thought, furrowing his brow in an attempt to make his thought somehow broadcast. **< Deaton did it to help me find you.>**

 **< Jesus Christ,>** Derek thought. **< Stay there.>**

“He’s healed now, I think,” Stiles said, smiling at Scott apologetically. Scott was still looking lost and sad. “No, this is great! Derek’s on his way, everything’s good.”

Scott frowned. “How do you know that Derek’s on his way? And what happened with your leg? Was it related to the bonding thing?”

“Um,” Stiles said, because he could actually _feel_ Derek running through the forest on all four paws, the twigs and dirt and leaves underneath his pads, the burn of muscles straining in his quads, the wind streaming through the fur on his back. “I can _feel_ what he does, man,” he said, staring up at Scott. “This is _awesome_.”

Scott just stared at Stiles with his mouth sort of hanging open and this horrified look on his face. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care, because he could feel Derek bounding down the street, past Mrs. Buechner’s raspberry bushes and the weird bird-shaped hedges that Mr. Montgomery obsessively trimmed. About fifteen seconds later, Derek shoved open Stiles’ window and clambered inside, buck naked and covered in mud, with flashing blue eyes and bared fangs.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” Derek was yelling, and Stiles was so, so glad that his dad wasn’t home.

“I was _thinking_ that your furry ass had been missing for five days, and that you might be in trouble! Excuse _me_ for caring!”

“Why is he _naked_?” Scott said, his voice cracking. “Is this normal for you? Oh my god, this explains _so much_.”

Derek shoved Stiles up against the wall, still all growly and partially wolfed out, and Stiles felt all his blood rush to South Central Station. “No murder!” Stiles shouted. “We do not murder people who care if we go missing for days on end!”

Instead of tearing out Stiles’ throat ( _with his teeth_ , Stiles’ cheerful internal monologue reminded him), Derek bent down and stuck his nose in the curve between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. And snuffled.

“That tickles, fuck,” Stiles said, his attempts to squirm away blocked by muscular arms covered with a sheen of sweat. If Derek came any closer, he would definitely feel something poking into those rock hard abs. “Fuck, Derek, _stop_ ,” he said, desperation leaking into his voice.

“You guys are _so weird_ ,” Scott said, and somehow that broke the spell; Derek jerked away like he had been burned and turned to face Scott.

“Get out,” he growled.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Scott said, and shook his head at Stiles as he grabbed his backpack and ducked out the still-open window.

Stiles shut his eyes. He opened them. Derek was still standing naked in the middle of his room. “What. The. Fuck.”

“I think that’s _my line_ ,” Derek said, whirling around to face Stiles. Stiles made a valiant effort to keep his eyes on Derek’s face. “What the hell made you think it was a good idea to perform a _bonding ritual_?”

“Deaton said it would help me find you,” Stiles said, trying to keep the worry from his voice.

“Deaton said—” Derek huffed and threw his hands in the air. “Fantastic! I’m so glad that you had adult supervision during our one-sided, _non-consensual_ marriage!”

“What,” Stiles said.

Derek glared.

“Wait,” Stiles said, reaching up to clutch his hair in his fists. “Did you just say _marriage_?”

Derek pursed his lips. “Yes. Go get me some pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the fun begins.


	8. Accidental Marriage (Or: Why does no one trust me?)

Twenty minutes and a clothed werewolf later, Derek was seated at the Stilinski’s kitchen table, an empty glass of orange juice next to him.

“My parents did the bonding ritual,” Derek said. “I’m telling you, it’s part of a marriage ceremony.”

“No, no, no,” Stiles said, “we’re not married, you can’t get married without both parties being there, I’m pretty sure this is a _thing_. Person one and person two get together and say stuff and sign legal documents and bam, married.” He halted in his pacing and stared at Derek, who was now slumped over the table, face buried in his arms. “Plus, you know, there’s usually kissing. I would _definitely_ remember kissing you.”

If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Derek’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed sobs. But this was Derek. He was totally laughing. “Shut up.”

Derek lifted his face just enough to raise his eyebrows at Stiles, in a silent _I didn’t say anything._ The corner of his mouth was curled upwards in a sarcastic smirk, though. Asshole.

“Oh my god, I hate you,” Stiles said, and Derek dropped his head back onto the table. “Anyway, Deaton said it was temporary, so we just go find him tomorrow, and get a werewolf annulment. Easy peasy.”

“Stiles,” Derek muttered, slightly muffled by his arms.

“What?”

He was silent for a long time before lifting his head and flicking his eyes over Stiles’ face. He opened his mouth, only to shut it again. After a moment, he pushed his chair out and stood, looking at Stiles silently in the quiet warmth of the overhead kitchen lights.

“What?” Stiles repeated.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Derek said, averting his gaze.

Stiles _knew_ that wasn’t what he had been planning to say. He huffed, annoyed, before circling the table and tugging on the hem of Derek’s shirt, fingers bunching in the stretchy fabric above his hip. “Don’t be dumb,” he said, and turned towards the stairs. He didn’t look back, because he didn’t want to break this weird mood that had descended over both of them, a quiet tension that made every step away from Derek a little harder. Stiles didn’t stop until he was at the door to his bedroom. Taking a stuttering breath, he pushed open the door and stepped towards the bed. He could feel Derek standing close behind him, could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “C’mon,” he said, finally turning around.

Derek wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at the bed. There was something odd in his expression that Stiles couldn’t quite put a name to—a stiffness in his shoulders and an intensity in his gaze.

“I don’t want to change,” Derek said, almost too quiet to hear.

“What?” Stiles gaped at him. “What are you even talking about? I mean, do you want to sleep in those clothes? Or, like, is this a more existential thing about your grumpy personality and how you’d like to preserve it? You’ve lost me, dude.”

Derek rolled his eyes. Stiles tamped down the warm feeling that bubbled up in his chest at the sight.

“I don’t want to change to wolf form,” Derek qualified, licking his lips and ducking his head. He looked up at Stiles from underneath long eyelashes, and—holy god, Stiles was going to spend the night in bed with Derek Hale. As a human.

“You’re sleeping with me looking like _that_?” Stiles asked, voice squeaking only a little, as he flailed his arms in the direction of Derek’s everything.

Derek raised an eyebrow.

It took Stiles a few seconds to catch on. “Oh, my god, no. _Literally_ sleeping, dude, not the fun kind, you know what I meant.”

“Fine,” Derek said, turning away. “I’ll sleep on the floor, then.”

“Oh, no _way_.” Stiles grabbed Derek’s arm and proceeded to drag him onto the bed. Derek didn’t even offer token resistance, and Stiles felt oddly smug. “I know how you sleep, dude, you’re a cuddler.” He could feel his cheeks heating up, but he ignored it and strode over to the light switch in a few jerky movements. It was still early, maybe eight or nine, but Stiles could feel weariness seeping into his bones.

He skirted around the edge of the bed, eyes quickly adjusting to the twilight filtering through the curtains. He navigated around Derek’s legs, and settled himself onto the far side of the bed, next to the wall.

He wriggled into the blankets to get as comfortable as possible while still wearing jeans—because he was not waking up next to Derek without at least three layers of clothing between Derek and Stiles’ morning wood, thank you—and glanced over to where Derek was still sitting propped up against the headboard, hands folded in his lap, and looking somewhat constipated.

“Dude, relax,” Stiles said, even though it made him sort of a hypocrite. “Just sleep, and we’ll figure it out in the morning. Okay?”

Derek sighed, the long line of his shoulders drooping a fraction. “Okay.”

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable, but he was hyper aware of the body next to him, radiating heat and tension. He could feel the blankets shift as Derek slid down the bed. If he concentrated, he could feel the cotton sliding against Derek’s skin, in tandem with the way it felt against his own.

“Stop,” Derek said, and Stiles jerked, hitting Derek in the arm.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to ignore the burn of embarrassment, before turning his head to glare at Derek directly. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

“You were strengthening the bond,” Derek growled.

“How was I even—”

“I could feel it!” Derek rolled onto his side, facing Stiles. “Whatever you were doing just now, _don’t_.”

Stiles swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Their faces were so close now, only a few inches apart. Stiles could see the individual eyelashes on Derek’s eyelids, the shifting brown-blue-green streaks in his irises, his expanding pupils. He felt a soft puff of breath against his lips as Derek exhaled sharply. Derek’s lips were slightly parted, pink and soft looking, and Stiles found himself drifting closer.

Derek shifted backwards on the bed, his face twisted in a grimace, and Stiles felt his insides clench.

“Shit,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, his voice strained, as he flipped onto his other side, facing away from Stiles. “Go to sleep.”

Stiles curled his hands up into fists, so he wouldn’t be tempted to smooth out the taut lines of the muscles in Derek’s shoulders. He closed his eyes and flopped onto his back, turning his face to the wall before opening his eyes again, staring at the shadows on the wall. He brought his thumb up to smooth over the stucco texture that had been there as long as he could remember.

“Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles dropped his hand and froze, all his muscles tensing. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Stiles turned his head, readying his bitchface, but all he could see was the black mess of Derek’s hair falling onto the pillow, and the round curve of his ear. “Nothing?” He huffed out an irritated sigh. “You’re going to stick with that, really?”

After a long moment of silence, he rolled onto his side, facing the wall, and curled up into the fetal position, tucking his hands in his armpits.

It felt like hours before he finally drifted off.

***

He woke up sprawled onto his stomach, a warm, heavy weight on his back, and his right arm folded up at an awkward angle between his mattress and his pillow. He wriggled backwards, closer to the source of the warmth, and flexed his fingers to get the circulation flowing once more. His waist and legs were sort of itchy, but Stiles wasn’t awake enough to try to fix it.

He cracked open the eye that wasn’t currently smashed into his pillow. Judging from the orange tinge splashed onto the wall, it was just after sunrise. Way too early for a Saturday morning. He was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when the warm mass on top of him shifted.

“Oh my god,” Stiles shouted, flailing his arms and legs. “What are you—”

Derek uttered a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl, and snaked his arm around Stiles’ waist. “Too early.”

Stiles froze, all of his muscles tensing. On the one hand, Derek had a perfectly good point. It was early, and Stiles had been planning on going back to sleep. On the other hand, Stiles was currently sporting an erection the size of Ohio, and Derek could smell boners.

“Derek, get off, I gotta pee,” he blurted.

Derek sighed and rolled away, and Stiles scrambled off the bed, heart pounding.

From his new position standing at the foot of the bed, Stiles could see Derek’s mussed hair and the profile of his soft, sleepy face. His shirt was rucked halfway up his stomach, revealing the curve of his back and the dimples above his ass. His legs were splayed out and tangled with the blankets, his jeans pushed halfway up one leg, revealing a tanned, perfectly muscled calf covered sparsely in dark hair.

Stiles pressed a hand to the front of his jeans and tried not to groan out loud.

Derek let out an obscene sounding moan and his hips twitched ever-so-slightly. Stiles bolted for the bathroom and shoved a hand down his pants. He let his mind replay the scene from this morning: Derek’s skin glowing softly in the sunlight leaking through the blinds; the taut stretch of back muscle and the raised tendons in his neck; how young he looked without his perpetual frown. It was that last one, weirdly enough, that had Stiles pulsing into his fist within a dozen strokes. He could feel his cheeks flaming as he wiped up the mess with a handful of toilet paper.

When he got back to the bedroom, Derek was sitting curled up against the headboard, hunched over and with his legs drawn up to his chest. His face was a splotchy pink and he refused to meet Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles shut his eyes as he tried to stave off the wave of mortification that rushed through him.

“Where’s your trash,” Derek bit out, and when Stiles opened his eyes, he saw a wad of kleenex clenched in Derek’s fist.

Which meant—

“Oh, fuck, you could feel _that_ too?”

Derek’s face scrunched up like he had been eating lemons, or something. “Just tell me where the damn trash can is, Stiles.”

Cheeks on fire, Stiles leaned over to grab the trashcan from underneath his desk and thrust it at Derek, before storming out of the bedroom.

***

His dad was sitting at the kitchen table when he got downstairs. Stiles froze. “Dad.”

His father raised an eyebrow at him from over his newspaper. “Stiles.”

“So, how was work?” Stiles tried, but his dad just stared in the direction of the stairs. “Dad?”

“Morning,” Derek said from behind him, his voice rough. Whether it was from the embarrassment of having to ask Stiles for the trashcan for his used tissues, fear of his dad’s wrath, or just his normal post-waking up voice, Stiles couldn’t tell.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Dad said, sounding a little bit shell-shocked.

“Sorry,” Derek said.

“It’s fine,” Dad said, flashing a strained smile in Derek’s direction. “Sit down, son.” He turned towards Stiles and his smile turned sharp. “Explain,” he said.

“Uh, we sort of got werewolf married,” Stiles blurted, and shit. That was not the right way to start this conversation.

“Your son is an idiot,” Derek said, folding himself into the chair across from Stiles’ father, the same spot he’d been sitting yesterday afternoon.

“Hey!”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Stiles’ dad said, lowering his newspaper, “I must have misheard you. I could have sworn I heard you say that the two of you got _married_?”

“This is all Deaton’s fault!” Stiles said, as Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know it would be permanent!”

“It’s not permanent,” Derek interrupted, nostrils flaring. “Yet.”

“Back up a second. You never even told me you two were dating,” Dad said, frowning between Derek and Stiles.

“Oh my god, we’re _not_!” Stiles said, flailing his hands for emphasis. His dad gave him an incredulous look. “We’re not dating!”

“Son,” Dad said, a guilty expression flashing across his face, “you know I don’t care who you’re with, as long as they make you happy, right?” The guilt dropped away, replaced by a stern frown. “That being said, I don’t think I need to remind you that the age of consent in California is _eighteen_.”

Derek let out a pained sound and covered his face in his hands.

“Oh, my god, Dad! It’s not even an issue! I mean, come on,” Stiles said, waving with both hands in Derek’s direction. He seemed to be attempting to sink into the floor. “Does he look like he wants to date me?”

Derek dropped his hands on the table and grit his teeth. “We aren’t discussing this,” he said, glaring at Stiles, before turning back to Stiles’ father. “We need to get Deaton to reverse the spell. Immediately.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, frowning at Derek, “I was just trying to make sure you were safe. Besides, Deaton _said_ the spell was temporary. Why are you in such a hurry to detach yourself, anyway?”

Derek glared down at the table like he was trying to burn a hole in the wood, but still didn’t say anything.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles’ father said, and Stiles jerked around to face him. “You,” he said, pointing at Stiles, “asked Deaton to cast some sort of spell in order to help Derek.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, toying with the hem of his shirt. Even though he was the one standing, he still felt at a disadvantage, somehow.

“Without asking Derek’s permission, or knowing what the effects of the spell would be, or how to remove it?” His dad smiled at Derek, soft and sort of rueful. Probably thinking about how horrible his son was, and how it must be all his fault since, you know, he was the one who raised him wrong.

Stiles bit his lip. “Okay, yeah, when you put it that way, it sounds a little sketchy.”

Dad turned and directed his patented Sheriff stare at Stiles. “It’s perfectly reasonable for Derek to want this thing removed. It’s not as though he had a choice in the matter.”

Stiles swallowed, setting his jaw even as he ducked his head. It didn’t matter that he liked having a connection to Derek. It wasn’t his call to make.

He heard his dad sigh. “So how exactly does this spell make you _werewolf married_?”

Stiles winced. He’d hoped his dad had missed that part.

It was Derek who spoke, though. “It’s a bonding ritual, the same as Deaton used on my parents after Laura was born.”

Stiles lifted his head to look at Derek. His face was blank, a carefully guarded mask, but Stiles could sense that he was anxious. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the bond or just because he knew Derek, knew how much it hurt to talk about his family.

Derek cleared his throat before continuing. “It lets the bonded pair sense each other from long distances, and feel what the other is feeling. Physically,” he added. “Mostly it’s so that if one of the pair is wounded, the other can help them manage the pain.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. The tips of Derek’s ears were pink. He was totally hiding something. The whole sharing physical sensations thing had to be more than just a protective thing, right? His mind flashed back to this morning, when he came into the bedroom to see Derek clutching a handful of tissues, looking ashamed and aroused.

“Oh,” Stiles said, because _duh_. Long distance sex would be _so much better_ with a bond.

Derek glared at Stiles, as though daring him to say something. Stiles felt his dick twitch, and for once he had no idea if it was his own interest or Derek’s.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Derek said, carrying on as though Stiles hadn’t just had an epiphany about werewolf intercourse. “I’m guessing Stiles used it to find me, which was completely unnecessary and idiotic.”

“Hey!” Stiles said, glaring at Derek. “You had been missing for a _week_ , and apparently you were caught in a trap and not planning on getting out of it anytime soon. You could have been eaten by bears!”

“Bears?” Dad asked, trying—and failing—to keep the amusement off his face.

Derek ignored him, eyes locked on Stiles’. “And if I hadn’t gotten out of the trap, you would still be feeling like you had a broken leg!”

“Oh, my god!” Stiles said, mouth dropping open. “Are you seriously that masochistic that the only reason you escaped from a coyote trap was because I could feel it too?”

Derek stilled.

Dad leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat. “Well, as fun as this has been, I was hoping to actually enjoy my Saturday, and I don’t want to be worried about my idiot son and his not-boyfriend.” He shot Derek a look, as if challenging him to correct his wording.

Derek hunched his shoulders and looked vaguely guilty.

“I hate you both,” Stiles said, and was summarily ignored.

Dad eyed Derek speculatively. “Any side effects I need to know about?”

Derek’s eyes darted back and forth before he said, “We’ll start feeling a tug if we’re too far apart. Since the bond is new, we’re supposed to be in proximity until it strengthens.”

“This tug painful?” Stiles’ dad asked, his eyes flicking over to Stiles, mouth pursed in a frown.

Derek nodded once, curt, his eyes flicking to a point next to Dad’s shoulder.

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t _that_ bad,” Stiles said, snorting.

“For you,” Derek said, twisting to glare at Stiles from underneath his eyebrows.

“Oh.”

Dad smiled, that weird half-quirk of his mouth that Stiles had inherited, that meant he was trying really hard not to laugh. “Stiles, you find Deaton and figure out how to reverse this thing.” He pushed his chair out and got to his feet.

“No stalling,” he added, with a knowing look.

“Dad!” Stiles whined. “Why does no one trust me?”

Derek snorted, and Stiles’ dad sighed loudly.

“Fine,” Stiles conceded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’ll call Deaton, see if he can meet us at the office.”

His dad nodded, apparently satisfied, before walking over to Derek. “And you,” he said, clapping a hand on Derek’s shoulder, “are going to stay in our guest bedroom. Let’s get you settled in.”

Stiles blinked. “Wait, what? Why is he staying at our _house_?”

“Did you not hear him say that he has to stay close?” His dad raised an eyebrow. “I’m certainly not letting him sleep in your bed again.”

“Uh. What do you mean, _again_?” Stiles felt his stomach drop out.

“I’m not stupid,” Dad said, and Derek winced.

“Right,” Stiles said, wondering how far he could get if he attempted to flee the state. Probably not very far. “I’m just gonna call Deaton, then.”

“You do that,” Stiles’ dad said, his trying-not-to-laugh face solidly in place. “Derek, after me.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said, following him meekly upstairs, and Stiles let out a groan of frustration.


	9. Road Trip (Or: Screwed, and not in the good way)

Stiles sat down on the living room couch, staring at the screen of his cell phone for a long minute, before thumbing over to contacts and finding Deaton.

He fidgeted in his seat as the vet’s office phone rang through to voicemail. Stiles hung up immediately, realized he should probably leave a message, and tried calling again.

“Uh, yeah, hi, Deaton, I know I came to you yesterday about my sick pet? Well, like, he’s doing better but there are some weird side-effects and I was hoping you could take a look and _fix them_. Oh my god. Stiles, this is Stiles, by the way. So, uh. Call me back. Thanks.” He rattled off his cell number before jabbing the end call button and running fingers through his hair.

“Fuck,” he said, and called Scott.

Scott picked up on the second ring. “Stiles? Is everything okay? Is Derek there?”

Stiles swallowed, breathing through his nose in an attempt to calm down. “I can’t get ahold of Deaton.”

“What?” Scott’s voice echoed, tinny, through the speaker. “Why do you need Deaton?”

“Um, because apparently that bonding ritual is some sort of _marriage_ thing? And we need it reversed, pronto.”

Scott coughed, and Stiles was pretty sure he had just choked on his own laughter. “Um, dude,” Scott said, when he finally regained his breath, “he had to go out of town for some sort of pet emergency.”

“What?” This couldn’t be happening. Deaton wouldn’t just leave without warning. Right? Oh, God, Deaton would _totally_ leave without warning.

“Yeah,” Scott continued, blithely unaware of Stiles’ imminent breakdown. “He sent me an email yesterday, after we got to your house, but I didn’t see it until last night.”

“Okay, but he’ll be back soon, right? Like, later today?”

“Uh.” Scott hesitated. “He actually said he might be gone for a while.”

Stiles was _so screwed_. And not in the good way. “But who will save the puppies, Scott?”

“The other veterinarian?”

“Wait, what, there’s a second veterinarian?” Stiles felt a tiny ember of hope flare to life in his chest. “Can they reverse the bond between me and Derek?”

“Uh, _no_ , she’s just a regular vet,” Scott said, and the ember died.

“I’m so screwed,” Stiles groaned.

“No, it’s fine!” Scott said, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. “Deaton gave me the number of an emissary up in Washington in case we run into any trouble. I’ll text it to you.” He paused, clearing his throat. “You want me to come over?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Stiles said, feeling a knot of dread curl up in his stomach. “I’ll just call this emissary person, and everything will go back to normal, right?”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott said, and then, “Just let me know if you need anything?”

“I will,” Stiles said, and hung up the phone before he could panic.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text a few minutes later, and Stiles stared at the number for a good thirty seconds before breaking down and dialing it.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was scratchy, warm, and feminine.

Stiles realized with a start that Scott hadn’t given him her name. “Uh, hi. I…are you a friend of Alan Deaton?”

There was a brief pause. “I wouldn’t use the word friend, but yes, I know Alan.”

Stiles exhaled. “I, uh, went to see him yesterday about a…thing.” He winced internally. “A, sort of, bonding thing. For me and my dog.”

“Your dog?”

Stiles stopped. “Uh, yeah? You know, since Deaton is a veterinarian? Why, what are you?”

“A psychiatrist.”

“Oh my god. Okay, my friend and I got accidentally married and we need a divorce. And probably counseling.” 

The voice on the other end stifled a bark of laughter. “You’re one of his teenagers, aren’t you? Scott?”

“What? No, I’m the human. Stiles. Does Deaton _talk_ about us? ‘Oh, you’ll never guess what those dumbass kids got up to this week! I bonded the human and the werewolf so they could locate each other and didn’t count on the fact that it would function as a marriage ritual!’”

“Werewolf?” the woman said, sounding alarmed.

Stiles felt all the blood drain out of his face. “Oh, haha, you know, just as an example, because you know none of that stuff’s real—”

“Alan bound a human to a _werewolf_? What was he thinking?”

Stiles exhaled noisily, running a hand over his face. “Oh, thank god, because that conversation was about to get super awkward—”

“Please tell me the two of you aren’t in a relationship.”

Stiles blinked. “What? No.”

She let out a gusty sigh. “Okay, that makes things easier. You’ll want to do a reversal as soon as possible, before the bond gets any stronger. I would suggest contacting Alan right away.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s great, except we can’t reach him. He told us to contact you.” Stiles swallowed. “Which, uh, he didn’t actually give me your name, or anything.”

This time the woman didn’t bother holding back her laughter. “Call me Willow.”

Stiles frowned. “Like the chick on Buffy?”

“Think of it as a nickname,” Willow said, still laughing. “Stiles, was it? You’re welcome to come up here, Stiles, if that’s easier than waiting for Alan to get back.”

Stiles winced. Hadn’t Scott said something about her being from Washington? That was a ten hour drive, at least. “Yeah, about that. What exactly is the range on these spells?”

Willow let out a snort. “About five feet.”

“Fu—” Stiles started to say, “—un. Fun times.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Willow said. “You live in Beacon Hills, right? It’s about a fifteen hour drive.”

“Great,” Stiles said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Right now, that was approximately none.

“Why don’t you give me your email address and I’ll send you a Google Maps link?”

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” Stiles said, listing off his email by rote.

“Okay, got it,” Willow said, sounding unreasonably cheerful. “Just give me a call when you get close. I’ll set up the spell, and it should be ready by the time you get here.”

Stiles threw his head back into the wall behind him with a solid thunk. “Okay, yeah, that’s…thank you.”

“No problem, Stiles. See you soon.”

Stiles was _so screwed_.

***

Stiles stuck his head into the guest bedroom door to find Derek sitting on the bed, staring into space. Brooding.

“So,” Stiles said, stepping inside. “Derek, hey, how’s it going?”

Derek stared at Stiles from underneath his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well, see, I tried calling Deaton.”

“Tried?” One eyebrow was lifted now, and the frown seemed even deeper.

“Yeah, funny thing, apparently he’s out of town or something for an emergency? So, yeah, there’s that.”

Derek’s frown turned murderous.

“No, it’s fine though! It’s all good, because he gave Scott the number of another emissary, I called her, she was totally understanding, said she would undo the spell for us.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, and?” Stiles practically shouted. He may have had a slight problem with volume control while under pressure. Whatever. “This is great, you should be smiling! Smile, Derek!”

Derek rolled his eyes, but his murderous expression eased into one of irritation. “There’s always a catch. What is it this time?”

“Uh. She lives in Spokane.”

Derek’s face did that frustrated clench thing, where he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his mouth and looked like he was going to pop a blood vessel from a mixture of irritation and despair.

“But, you know, if we leave now,” Stiles said, “we could be there in a couple days! So. You know. There’s that.”

Derek sighed and cracked his neck, glaring at Stiles. “I’m driving.”

“Oh, what, okay then, yeah, I’ll just…go to my room. And pack things. Clothing. You know. ‘Cause, two days there, and two days back. So you might wanna go to your loft and make sure you have clothing too?”

Derek’s bitchface grew even bitchier. “I’d be delighted, if I weren’t _tethered_ to you.” He lifted himself off the bed and started strolling forward.

Stiles took a step backwards and ended up crashing into the wall.

“Go get your stuff, idiot,” Derek said, storming past him and out into the hallway.

***

“I’ll just. Stay in the car,” Stiles said, as Derek unbuckled his seatbelt in the parking lot by the loft. “You know. I don’t really want to see you picking out your underwear, or whatever, so.”

Derek narrowed his eyes as his hand stilled on the door handle. “I’m not risking another migraine. You can wait in the kitchen.”

“Migraine?” Stiles felt a horrible stabbing sensation in his gut. He was pretty sure it was guilt, but he’d become an expert at ignoring it over the past few years.

Stiles reached down to detach his seatbelt. “You sure it’s bond related, and not, you know, because of blood loss or something?”

“Just come upstairs,” Derek growled, and slammed the car door shut behind him.

Stiles trailed after him, pausing at the entryway.

Derek turned to look at Stiles. “Come on,” he prompted, his voice only slightly rage-filled.

“Yeah, you have fun,” Stiles said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the spiral staircase. “I’m gonna wait here, if that’s close enough.”

Derek sighed, but left without comment. Stiles waited until he was up the stairs and out of sight before pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

He was just hoping that since his dad was probably asleep, he wouldn’t answer the phone.

Stiles exhaled a sigh of relief when his father’s cell went straight to voicemail. “Hey Dad, just calling to let you know that, uh, Deaton’s out of town. Um. But Scott gave me the number of another person that can help us, so we’re just going to be, uh, driving over to meet up with her. Derek’s doing the driving, so, that’s cool. Yep. You should eat that salad I left for you in the fridge, and I’ll see you in a few days. No more than five, probably. Okay bye.”

Hopefully by the time his dad heard the message and figured out what was going on, they’d be several hundred miles away. And, more importantly, out of the Sheriff’s jurisdiction. Stiles let out a noisy sigh and reached up to massage the tension out of the back of his neck.

“You left him a salad?” Derek asked. “How thoughtful of you.”

Stiles jerked backwards, bashing his elbow against the door frame. “Oh my _god_! You need a _bell_!”

Derek had a battered red suitcase in his left hand and a smirk on his face.

“Are you proud of yourself?”

Derek flashed a toothy grin. After shooing Stiles to the other side, he set the suitcase down and locked the doors, a smile still on his face.

“The fuck is up with your mood swings today,” Stiles said, and the grin was replaced by a glare.

Derek started down the hallway, faster than Stiles could keep up without breaking into a jog.

“Well,” Derek snapped, “every time my mood improves, I remember that I’m stuck with you.”

Stiles winced. “Ha, ha, hilarious. Let’s all laugh, because Stiles is intolerable to be around.”

Stiles jogged the rest of the way to the car, not waiting for Derek’s response. The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the passenger seat and turned to stare out the window while he waited for Derek.

He was careful to avoid eye contact as Derek shoved his suitcase into the back and slipped into the driver’s seat.

Derek buckled his seatbelt before clearing his throat.

“You’re not,” Derek said.

Stiles pursed his lips, glancing at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “Not what?”

“Intolerable.”

“Yeah, of course. You just can’t stand to be bonded with me, is all.”

“That’s not—” Derek huffed as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. “That’s not why I want to remove the bond, and you know it.”

Stiles shut his eyes and slouched further in his seat. “Wake me up when we hit Sacramento.”

***

It was still light out when Stiles opened his eyes back up, but the trees outside the car had morphed from palm trees into evergreens and the sun was low in the sky.

Stiles stifled a yawn. “Time is it?” he asked, and Derek merely grunted. The clock on the dash was flashing 1:03, but Derek could have _said_.

“Thanks for the info, jerk,” Stiles said, before wiggling in his seat to get his cell phone out of his back pocket. Two missed calls from his dad, and a text from Scott.

_From Scott: Dude your dads freaking out_

His phone clock read 2:08. “Your car clock’s off,” he said.

Derek ignored him.

“We gonna stop for lunch?” Stiles asked, willing his eyelids not to droop.

“No,” Derek said, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Stiles turned to glare at Derek through narrowed eyes. “Let me rephrase that.” He put on a fake smile and his most cheerful voice. “How long until the nearest town?”

“No.” Derek grit his teeth and kept staring forward, at the road ahead.

“Because we are stopping there. And we are going to get food.”

“No.”

“Expand your vocabulary, dude.”

“My vocabulary’s just fine.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned on the GPS on his phone. They were heading north on the I-5, just leaving Orland, wherever the hell that was. “You were supposed to wake me up in Sacramento,” he complained, typing in a search for fast food. “There’s an In-N-Out in Redding, we could stop there. It’s about forty five minutes away.”

“I don’t want burgers.”

“Wow, okay, grumpy. What about Taco Bell? That’s like a half hour from here.”

“I don’t understand how you can eat that crap,” Derek said, scowling at the road.

“Well, that’s not a no, so—”

“ _No_. Taco Bell tastes like chemicals.”

Stiles grinned. “Tasty, tasty chemicals.”

“Chemicals and despair,” Derek corrected, lifting his eyebrows.

“Is there anything you’d actually be willing to eat in the realm of fast food?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I get the deciding vote, since you’re not going to be eating it anyway,” Stiles said, turning back to the window. “And I vote In-N-Out.”

There was a beat of silence. Stiles could see Derek’s face contorting out of the side of his eye. “Sorry, dude,” he added.

“Stop calling me that,” Derek sighed.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll just call you by your name from now on. No endearing nicknames or eponyms or whatever. Well, Derek? What do you think, Derek? Are you enjoying me referring to you as Derek, Derek?”

“Well, Stiles, I think you should stop talking.”

“Harsh, Derek. Harsh.”

“I liked you better when you were asleep.”

“Pfft, like I haven’t heard that one before. Derek.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Whatever. You’d be _lost_ without me.”

Stiles didn’t think much of his statement until he registered the sudden silence in the car. When he turned to look, Derek was staring out at the road, jaw clenched.

“Du—Derek, what?”

Derek cleared his throat. “How many miles until Redding?”

Stiles turned the screen of his phone back on, and navigated over to the maps application. “Looks like about thirty miles left, why?” He sat up straighter in his seat. “Does this mean you’re going to acquiesce to my demands for food?”

Derek’s expression softened slightly. “Yes, Stiles,” he said, his eyes flicking over towards Stiles’ face. “Now shut up and let me drive.”

***

For his own safety, Stiles waited until Derek was picking at the remains of his double-double to bring up the subject of sleeping arrangements. A hungry Derek was a homicidal Derek.

“So I figured we’d stay the night in Portland,” Stiles said, absently chewing on the straw to his chocolate shake. “Because I really want to try Voodoo Doughnut, and then it’s just five more hours to Spokane.”

“Portland’s not on the way,” Derek said, and Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because he _knew_ Derek was going to fight this.

“Du—Derek, it adds less than an hour to a fifteen hour drive. I know, I _checked_.”

“You can sleep in the car while I drive.”

“Uh, no, _Derek_. Just because you _can_ drive for fifteen hours straight without taking a break for sleep doesn’t mean you should.” He bit his lip. Time for the trump card. “Wouldn’t physical exhaustion just cause more strain on the bond?”

Derek frowned before snagging another of Stiles’ fries.

“Look,” Stiles said, “we don’t want to do anything that could make the bond harder to remove. So, a nice night’s sleep can only help. You know, take it easy, don’t push ourselves. Yourself. Whatever.”

“Fine, but I don’t see why we can’t stop somewhere in Washington that’s actually _on the way_.”

“But Voodoo Doughnut, Derek!”

Derek gave Stiles a blank stare.

“Whatever, you can’t tell me you don’t want donuts. I _know_ you have a secret sweet tooth.”

Derek frowned, opening his mouth once before shutting it again. “No, I don’t.”

“Please,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes, and gesturing towards his drink. “You’ve been eyeing my milkshake since we sat down. I know what coveting looks like, Derek, and you’ve totally been coveting my sweet, sweet beverage.” He took another sip, eyes narrowed, and sure enough, Derek’s eyes flitted back down to the straw.

Derek’s eyes flicked back up to meet Stiles’, his eyebrows drawn and mouth pressed into a thin line. Stiles silently congratulated himself for not choking on his shake, even as he could feel his cheeks heat up.

“If I say yes,” Derek said, “will you shut up about my sweet tooth?”

Stiles grinned. He knew Derek would crack eventually. “Pinky swear.”

“Fine,” Derek said, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing both his tray and Stiles’.

“Great!” Stiles said, getting up and following to the exit. “I’ll look for motels while we drive. We’ll have a place to stay for the night. Then we can wake up early, get donuts for breakfast, and get going. Piece of cake.”

***

Two hours later, Stiles was about ready to stab somebody. Someone on the Portland city council had apparently decided that the first weekend in May was perfect for about a dozen different festivals. Stiles still hadn’t found a hotel with a vacancy, and three of the people he’d called had asked if he was part of the Marijuana march. The last woman cooed in sympathy when he’d said no. He was probably starting to sound desperate.

“Fuck everything,” he said, and he caught Derek smirking out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, that means you too, buddy.”

Derek’s smirk disappeared.

“Stiles,” he said, and then stopped.

Stiles waited until the urge to fill the silence was overwhelming. “‘Stiles,’ what?” He looked over at Derek, but he was staring straight out at the road ahead. “Were you going to continue that sentence, or just encourage the blindingly awkward silence that followed?”

“I need to.” Derek grimaced before trying again. “ _We_ need to talk about what happened. This morning.”

Stiles frowned. “Like, the super awkward conversation with my dad? I mean, now that you mention it, I really need to call him back, since he’s been leaving me voicemails, but—”

“Before that.”

Derek looked like he was chewing and swallowing bits of broken glass, and when Stiles realized what he was talking about, he could sympathize.

“Whoah. Okay. Could we just, you know, _not_ talk about it instead?”

Derek glanced over at Stiles, his I’m-going-to-murder-you face on display. “It can’t happen again.”

“I hate to break it to you, but, uh, I’m a teenager. It sort of. Happens. Pretty frequently, in fact.”

“I’m not talking about the,” Derek said, making an incomprehensible gesture with the hand that wasn’t clutching the steering wheel. “I could feel you touching—”

Derek’s cheeks were flushed a splotchy red, and his grip on the steering wheel was so tight, it sapped all the color from his hands. He cleared his throat.

Stiles tried really hard not to laugh.

“It’s one thing to get aroused,” Derek said, blowing out a breath that ruffled the hairs above his forehead. “It’s another to…bring yourself to completion.”

“Oh my god, why is this so hard for you to say? It’s okay for me to get hard, but not okay for me to get off.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Which, dude. Derek. I don’t know if you realize how uncomfortable pent up tension can get.”

“I _know_ ,” Derek snapped. “I went through puberty, too.”

And there was an image that Stiles didn’t need right now. Or, rather, a series of images, involving a younger Derek stretched out naked on his bed with one fist around his—

Stiles shook his head to clear that particular train of thought. He cleared his throat to smooth away any potentially incriminating roughness, before saying, “Yeah, but it’s been awhile since puberty, hasn’t it? I don’t know if you remember all the horrifying details. And, uh, if we’re going to be in, well. Close proximity.” Stiles raised one hand to his face so he wouldn’t have to witness Derek’s reaction. “It’s just, there’s going to be a lot of tension. For me.”

“Yes, Stiles, I realize you’re attracted to me,” Derek growled, and Stiles dropped his hand. “I’m telling you not to jerk off until after the bond’s broken.”

“Wow, you actually said the words ‘jerk off’ without blushing. I’m impressed.”

Derek turned to glare at Stiles before turning back to the road. Stiles felt a flare of warmth in his belly. Ugh.

“Whatever,” Stiles said. “No guarantees. I might have pretty gnarly wet dreams tonight if I don’t get a chance to jack off before bed time, is all I’m saying.”

“Well, you’ll just have to deal with the wet dreams, then,” Derek said.

“Groovy,” Stiles said. “They get pretty weird, so. Just warning you ahead of time.”

“If I don’t strangle you before then,” Derek muttered.

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek before turning back to his cell phone. He still had a few more places to call before he got down to the one star hotels.


	10. Dubious Consent (Or: Mother fudgesicles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some seriously dubious sexual content, folks. For spoileriffic details, see the end note. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

“You’re lucky there was a cancellation,” the lady behind the counter was saying, as she waited for Derek’s credit card transaction to go through. “It’s crazy this weekend, and accommodating someone at the last minute like this is always a tricky thing.”

Derek smiled at her with all his teeth showing, the super fake flirty smile that Stiles loathed. It made him want to punch Derek in his stupidly adorable bunny teeth.

“Room twenty-four, it’s up the stairs and to the left. Have fun, you two!” She sent them an exaggerated wink, and Derek’s smile widened before he turned on his heel and pushed Stiles out the office door ahead of him.

“So, uh, not bad, right?” Stiles said, craning back to look at Derek, who had dropped all pretense of pleasantry and was now sporting his usual serial killer expression.

He glared at Stiles from under his thick bushy doom eyebrows. “Not bad? Stiles, I just paid $130 for one night in a shitty motel. Are you expecting me to be happy?”

“You? Happy? Never. I just thought _maybe_ you could try seeing the positives in the situation. For once.” Stiles pulled a face as he craned his neck back to watch Derek while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “Clearly that was a mistake.”

“Clearly,” Derek said. A few seconds later, he added, “Watch where you’re going.”

Stiles turned around just in time to crash face-first into the wall. “Ow! What the fuck, Derek?”

“I warned you,” he said, tone mild.

“You did that on purpose!” Stiles cried as he clutched one hand to his nose. He was actually hoping for a little blood, because it might make Derek feel guilty. When he peeked at his hand, though, it was dry and clean. Damn.

“You didn’t break it,” Derek said, as he passed Stiles in the hallway, car key dangling from one hand and suitcase from the other.

“What do you mean, ‘I didn’t break it.’ How would you know?”

Derek turned back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, maybe because of this.” He then stabbed his car key into his biceps.

“Mother _fudgesicles_!” yelled Stiles, as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his upper left arm, right where the bruise on Derek’s arm had quickly formed and was now just as quickly disappearing. “What was that for?”

“If you’d broken your nose, I would have felt it,” Derek said, shrugged, and started back down the hallway.

Stiles flexed his biceps as the pain dissipated. “God, you’re almost as bad as Peter. What the hell, Derek?”

He didn’t see that Derek had stopped in the middle of the hallway until he walked into him.

Stiles blinked as he fumbled for balance. Derek had gripped Stiles’ shoulder to keep him upright, and Stiles realized he’d dug his fingers into the sleeves of Derek’s henley in turn.

He let go as Derek stepped inside the room, but as soon as he moved to enter the room, he nearly collided with Derek again.

“Dammit,” Derek swore, and Stiles looked over the contents of the room to see what was wrong. The room was a little cramped, with cheery nondescript landscape paintings on the walls, yellow and blue striped wallpaper, a squashy looking yellow armchair crammed next to a scratched coffee table, and a yellow and orange bedspread on the medium sized bed in the center.

It took Stiles’ brain a moment to catch up, and he groaned louder even than Derek had. There was only one bed.

“I’ll sleep in the chair,” Derek said.

“What the hell, we already went through this!” Stiles settled his hands on his hips and glared over at Derek. “You need a good night’s sleep if you’re gonna be driving early tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you to bed. Because I will.”

Derek looked singularly unimpressed by Stiles’ threat. He tipped his suitcase over onto its side without giving any indication of having heard Stiles.

“Ugh,” Stiles said, “whatever. Feel free to stay here and brood, or whatever it is you do, and I’m going to go forage for food.” He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets as Derek knelt over his suitcase and started unzipping it.

Stiles waited for Derek to say something, but he stayed silent.

“So,” Stiles said. “How far can I go without, you know, headache?”

Derek sighed, but looked up from his luggage. “I don’t know. Same building, maybe?”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “I’ll check the lobby. You want anything?”

“No.”

Stiles bit back a sigh. It was stupid to feel disappointed. “Okay, fine,” he said instead, “your loss. I’m just gonna. Go.”

He left the room before Derek could say anything in response.

***

Stiles slipped back into the room as stealthily as he could and exhaled a sigh of relief when he saw Derek’s silhouette tucked under the covers, just barely visible in the light that spilled from the crack in the door.

It had probably been excessive for Stiles to wait until after midnight in the hotel lobby, playing Robot Unicorn Attack on his phone, but he had endured enough drama during his twenty minute conversation with his dad. He didn’t need to deal with Derek as he got ready for bed. He certainly didn’t want to convince him that sharing the bed wouldn’t be as horrible as it sounded.

Because it was going to be. Horrible, that is. As Stiles’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, he let himself look like he’d been avoiding, like he’d wanted to, for the past two days (if he were being honest with himself, like he’d wanted for over a year now).

Derek really was beautiful in sleep. Softer, somehow, without the worry lines and the aggressive eye rolls. His eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, and his mouth had fallen slack. Every muscle in his face and neck looked relaxed, missing the awful tension of the daylight hours.

Stiles dragged his gaze away before shucking his shirt and jeans, aiming for the stuffed armchair but probably ending up on the coffee table, or something. He padded over to the side of the bed, throat working in a dry swallow, before pulling back the covers and sliding inside as gently as possible. Barely even breathing, he settled back against the pillows.

Now that he was up close, Stiles could see more detail than before. Derek’s stubble was a dark scruff, almost a week’s worth of beard growth at this point. His lashes occasionally fluttered against his cheek, and Stiles could see the rising and falling of his chest, the covers occasionally slipping a fraction of an inch down the curve of his shoulder.

Stiles shut his eyes, but he could still see the image of Derek painted onto the backs of his eyelids. He was looking at Stiles, smiling at something he’d said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Stiles opened his eyes again, and the image was replaced with the monochrome of Derek sleeping.

Stiles rolled over so he was facing towards the door, and tried counting werewolves.

***

It was still dark when Stiles woke up. His skin was prickly and oversensitive, and Derek was a hot line along his side, one arm thrown over his chest, anchoring him to the mattress.

He opened bleary eyes and turned to find the motel alarm clock. It wasn’t even three yet, and Stiles let out a sigh of frustration as quietly as he could.

Derek shifted in his sleep, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, and suddenly, Stiles was completely, one hundred percent awake.

He was also so hard he ached from it. Judging from the hot length poking into his hip, so was Derek.

Stiles felt his own dick twitch at the thought.

There was no way he was going to just lay here in bed, awake, next to the object of his lust, while he slowly expired from a case of blue balls. It took him a few tries, but he finally managed to slip out from under Derek’s arm, and extricated himself from the tangle of covers. Derek made no sign of waking, just hummed quietly in his sleep and gathered a fold of blankets to his chest to fill the empty space where Stiles had been. Stiles tried not to feel insulted that he was so easily replaced.

He crept into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, the door open wide to let in the few rays of light that were spilling in from the hallway. He looked awful. His hair was sticking up on one side and his face was pale, emphasizing his weird moles and the way his nose turned up. He ran a finger over his lips, which were slightly chapped, and scraped his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to get rid of the lingering taste of morning breath.

All of which did nothing for his ridiculous, persistent, aching erection.

He didn’t care what Derek had said; he had to do something about this. Either he’d wake up in the morning with a hair-trigger hard-on, or at some point during the night he’d shoot his load onto the bed sheets, and probably Derek himself. With any luck, Derek would be too busy in dreamland to notice when Stiles started stroking himself off. Heck, he could play it off as Derek having a wet dream. He might have to sleep in a wet spot, but at least they’d be in separate rooms when the wet spot happened.

Stiles bit his lip. Derek had asked him not to, but surely this was an emergency? Besides, people had wet dreams all the time. It wasn’t Stiles’ fault. Really, he was saving them both from the humiliation of coming at the same time in the same place. Being in a separate room for this was a service. One which Stiles would gladly provide.

Mind made up, Stiles shucked his boxers and stepped into the shower. Even with his night vision, though, he couldn’t really see the knob, so he got out, closed the door, and flicked on the light switch. Swearing quietly to himself, he leaned against the sink as he waited for his eyes to adjust.

The shower was the one high point in the crappy hotel room. Roomy enough to stand in without being hit by the spray, it was a full cube with a hinged glass door. It had an adjustable shower head and a single rotating lever to adjust both temperature and pressure. Stiles pointed the shower head at the wall before turning the lever to as hot as it would go.

Lingering in the corner as he waited for the water to heat up, Stiles glanced down at himself. His erection had already left a few sticky spurts of pre-come onto his stomach, one strand stretching from the slit to just above his belly button. He folded his hands behind his back to resist the temptation to touch himself. This was probably the only chance he’d get to jerk off for the next day or so, and he wanted to make it count.

The water was starting to heat up now, the shower filling with steam, and Stiles closed his eyes and flexed his shoulders as he tried to relax. It was a little weirder to fantasize about Derek when he was in the next room. Stiles bit his lip as he concentrated on the bond. Underneath the warm humid air of the shower, he could feel the ghost of cotton sheets rubbing against Derek’s skin; the friction of his boxer briefs rubbing along Derek’s cock, trapped as it was between Derek’s body and the mattress.

What Stiles wouldn’t give to get his hands on that cock.

Stiles could feel his thigh muscles clenching, and he tightened the grip on his wrist so he wouldn’t reach around. He could remember what Derek looked like from that first day of seeing him naked in the woods. He still hadn’t seen him hard, though. How much bigger was he? Were the texture of the strokes different with foreskin? They must be different, that extra piece of skin slipping up and down the shaft as Stiles closed his hand around it and pumped. Maybe even stretching over the head once he’d played with it enough.

Stiles’ throat was suddenly dry, and he opened his mouth to breathe in a cloud of steam. Opening his eyes and unwrapping his hand from his wrist, he reached around to test the water temperature. It was good and hot, almost scalding, just like he liked, and he reached up to adjust the shower head before stepping fully under the spray.

Despite his best efforts at silence, he let out a moan as the hot water sluiced over his skin. He swallowed a few mouthfuls to wet his parched throat.

Stiles spread his hands under the spray, waiting until water started dribbling down his forearms, before closing his eyes and reaching down.

He let himself imagine Derek’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, catching lightly on the crown, Derek reaching down to massage his balls, middle finger sliding back to stroke the sensitive flesh behind.

“Derek,” he breathed out, blood pulsing hot in his dick, the world narrowed to the wet slide of his hands and the pleasure building in the pit of his stomach.

He was getting close, the pleasure building almost too fast, and he bit his lip, relishing the jolt of pain.

“ _Dammit_ , Stiles,” Derek growled, and Stiles tensed, his hand stilling on his dick mid-stroke.

Derek’s chest was heaving as he stared at Stiles from the doorway. He was wearing a white tank top and dark grey boxer briefs, the angled outline of his cock clearly visible, a dark spot at the tip. Stiles could feel his mouth water as his gaze ran up Derek’s body, noting the details. His legs and arms were covered in a sheen of sweat, the left strap of his shirt knocked off kilter and revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His mouth was cracked open, a hint of fang visible. His eyes were flashing with lust or anger or both, pupils expanding from pinpricks as he looked over at Stiles, irises flickering electric blue.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles said, but his voice cracked mid-syllable, and it sounded more like a moan than anything else.

Derek strode forward and yanked the shower door open, stepping into the stall and crowding Stiles up against the wall. Stiles could feel the water beating down on Derek’s skin now as well as his own, and his dick pulsed hot in his hand as he felt the water soaking into Derek’s underwear.

If Derek had been trying to get Stiles to lose his erection, he was doing a piss-poor job at it. Stiles gasped as Derek stepped forward, pinning Stiles to the ceramic of the shower wall, their chests touching. Every tremble rubbed Stiles’ slick cock against the bulge in Derek’s soaked underwear.

Derek’s eyes were steadily glowing blue, now, and he growled deep within his throat.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles whimpered, and apparently that was enough to make him snap, because he buried one hand in Stiles’ hair, the other closing around his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he leaned in to kiss Stiles.

His mouth was hot and wet and punishing. Derek bit at Stiles’ lips, sucking Stiles’ tongue into his mouth and invading Stiles’ mouth with his own tongue. He was growling deep in his chest, the rumble shaking through Stiles’ torso where they were pressed together. Even if Stiles had been capable of coherent speech, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Derek was claiming his mouth with teeth and tongue and all Stiles could do was writhe under the onslaught.

Stiles shifted so that the hand on his cock was now gripping the base tight, trying to stave off orgasm as he moaned into Derek’s mouth. Derek pulled away, and Stiles whimpered at the loss, but then Derek started biting and sucking at the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, the sharp flare of pain going straight to Stiles’ groin. Still holding the base of his cock with one hand, Stiles moved the other to scratch at Derek’s back, his leg coming up to wrap around Derek’s hips, heel nudging against Derek’s cloth-covered ass.

Derek jolted, hands moving down to grip Stiles’ bare ass with wide, hot palms, and Stiles gasped as he lifted upward, supporting all of Stiles’ weight.

Stiles was babbling now, an endless stream of “oh god” and “Derek” and “more” and “please” and long, drawn out utterances of “ _fuck_.” He looped his free arm around Derek’s shoulders, clenching his eyes shut as he pulled himself tight against Derek’s body, not daring to release the grip on his cock for even a second. He couldn’t come yet. If he came, this would be over, and Derek would probably just drop him and run, if it meant he could avoid confronting his feelings.

Derek shifted, and Stiles flailed in his grip, the back of his hand knocking against something cold and metallic.

The water turned frigid, blasting both of them in an icy spray.

There was a muffled shrieking—which Stiles would later realize was coming from his own throat—followed by a loud crash. Derek, in his attempt to scramble away from the source of the cold, jerked backwards and into the shower door. Unfortunately for both of them, it opened outwards, and Stiles clung to Derek like a Rhesus monkey as the two of them fell out of the shower.

His legs, still wrapped around Derek, slammed into the tile floor, followed by Derek’s back, Stiles’ arm, the back of Derek’s head. He could feel freezing water still spraying onto Derek’s legs, which were half in the shower. The strip of plastic below the door was digging into Derek’s ass.

Stiles buried his face in Derek’s chest and started laughing helplessly.

Derek tensed under Stiles. “Get off.”

Stiles paused mid-giggle. “What?” He lifted his face to look. Derek’s face was pale, his eyes wide.

“Get _off_ ,” Derek repeated, before convulsing and shoving Stiles off of him.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, sitting up and frowning over at Derek, who was pulling himself to a standing position and avoiding eye contact. As soon as he was on his feet, he bolted from the bathroom, and Stiles scrambled to follow him.

By the time he’d made it through the bathroom door and out into the bedroom, Derek had ripped off his wet clothing and yanked open the door. He cast one last look at Stiles before stepping through, naked and dripping, highlighted by the flickering lights of the hallway.

“What the hell!” Stiles yelled, running over to the door and throwing it open. He poked his head around the doorframe, and he saw a black tail disappear around the corner.

“Derek!”

The light in the hotel room across the hallway flicked on, and Stiles stumbled backwards, slamming the door shut, before they could open the door and see him in all his sopping wet, naked glory.

He fell back against the door, breathing in rapid pants, as he felt Derek’s paws slap against the concrete. The tug in his chest grew sharper with every passing moment.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Stiles specifically disregarding Derek's prior request to not masturbate, and as a result, Derek interrupts him mid-session and some angry making out ensues.


	11. Hurt/Comfort (Or: A sign from above, fate, and all that jazz)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion/mention of rape.

Stiles scrambled over the back of the stuffed armchair, desperate to find his jeans and shirt, which had apparently wedged themselves between the coffee table and the wall. Every passing moment, his connection to Derek felt both tenser and more fragile, like a piece of saltwater taffy, or a strand of melted marshmallow, or gooey strings of mozzarella cheese.

Maybe Stiles was just hungry.

He tried concentrating, like he’d done when the bond had first taken effect, but all he got back were occasional bursts of traffic noise, or flashes of color, red and orange. He also could feel anxiety simmering below his breastbone, but he wasn’t sure if that was something Derek was projecting, or Stiles’ own worries.

**< Derek?>**

Nothing.

Stiles worried his bottom lip as he finished buttoning up his jeans, his hair still dripping down his forehead and the back of his neck, soaking through his shirt. He could hear running water—the shower, he’d forgotten to turn off the shower. He stepped into the bathroom, feet sliding on the wet ceramic, before turning off the spray.

Stiles stood there for a moment, staring at his hand as it rested on the lever. Between his fingers, he could see the metallic silver of the knob, shining his own warped reflection back at him.

Stiles jerked his hand back as his chest spasmed, the tug towards Derek making itself known once more. Derek was still running, he could tell, and every foot of distance between them was making it harder to think.

Stiles needed to find him.

Well, there was no way Stiles was going to catch up on foot. He’d just have to hope Derek forgave him for borrowing his car.

Stiles grabbed a towel and scrubbed it through his hair a couple times to get out the worst of the wet and dashed towards the door, Derek’s keys clenched in one fist.

When he stepped out into the hall, he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose once, twice, then letting it out through his mouth in a rush. He was going to find Derek. He’d figure out what to say when he found him. For now, the important part was making sure Derek didn’t get lost in an unfamiliar city in his wolf form.

Stiles breathed in and out once more, willing himself to calm down, before checking his pockets one last time and letting go of the door. When he heard the soft click of the latch behind him, he turned to take the stairs down to the parking lot.

***

Stiles would have traded in this bonding spell for a GPS tracker any day of the week. Once he’d finally gotten Derek’s car started, he had nothing to go on but the irritatingly vague tug in his torso. He still wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t driving in circles; for every left turn, he made two right ones.

Meanwhile, he kept up a steady running commentary in his head, hoping some of it was making its way to Derek.

**< I’m sorry that I’m an idiot. I didn’t think you’d, like, attack me with your mouth. It’s a very nice mouth, by the way. But, uh, sorry. You probably didn’t want to use it on me. Like, I get it. I’m a mouthy teenager, I’m human and fragile, and you don’t want to get involved with me. I’m not exactly a catch, you know?**

**< What the fuck is up with these stoplights. I swear this is the fifth in a row that I’ve had to stop for.**

**< But whatever, I know you probably don’t want to have sex with me, and it was shitty of me to try getting off when you could feel it too. Like, I’m guessing that whole shower thing was mostly my fault, because, hello, you’re hot when you’re angry.**

**< Oh, my god, my toes itch. I wish I had worn socks.**

**< You know, if you could just, like, tell me where you are, so I didn’t have to keep driving in circles—wait, is that Broadway? I could have sworn I turned onto Broadway, like, ten minutes ago. This whole bonding ritual GPS is crap, I just want you to know.>**

He had just turned back onto Burnside when he felt a strange compulsion to turn right. With a sigh, he flicked on his turn signal and moved over to the right lane.

**< You know what, werewolf marriage GPS? I am sick of your shit. I just want to freaking find my werewolf husband, is that so much to ask? I guess I should be grateful that it’s three in the morning and there are a grand total of four cars on the road.>**

He frowned out the front windshield. There was something weirdly familiar about this street. Which was ridiculous, because he’d never been to Portland before. Still, when he looked out at the buildings he felt a strange sense of recognition. Almost like he’d seen this street before.

**< Google street view! I _knew_ I’d seen this before. >**

Stiles slowed the car to a crawl as his gaze swept up and down the surrounding buildings.

**< Okay, like, I know that finding you is priority numero uno, and just, I hope you know that too, but I can’t just keep driving in circles and hoping to randomly find you.**

**< Also, I don’t know about you, but I am freaking starving. The lobby had a soda machine, that was it, and man cannot subsist on caffeine and sugar alone. Well, okay, I guess man could, but it’s not exactly filling.**

**< Did I have a point? Right. My point is, Voodoo Doughnut is _right there_.**

**< This is clearly a sign from above. Fate. All that jazz. I mean, you wanted a donut, too, right? I swear I’ll pick up your trail as soon as I’ve obtained deep fried sustenance. You can thank me later.>**

The tug in his chest had settled into a satisfied hum as soon as Stiles’ eyes had alighted on the Voodoo Doughnut sign, beaming out like a pink beacon in the surrounding darkness. It wasn’t until he’d parked and clambered out of the car that he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Lying on the ground, tucked into a side awning of the brick Voodoo Doughnut building, was a huddled black fur ball, curled into itself, barely visible in the shadows.

Suddenly, the random coincidence of finding the donut shop didn’t seem very random.

“Derek?”

Derek’s ears flattened against his skull, and he shrank back against the corner of the small space, pressed up between the brick of the arch and the wooden door, reflecting green in the light from the street lamps.

Stiles crouched down next to Derek. “I’m sorry.”

Derek let out a whine.

“Can I touch you?”

Derek’s ears flicked up and he lifted his head. Stiles waited, arms wrapped around his knees. After what seemed like ages, Derek edged forward and prodded Stiles’ hand with the tip of his nose.

Stiles held his breath as he trailed his fingertips over Derek’s head, between his ears and back to the scruff of his neck, where he buried his hand into the soft fur and scratched.

“Come back to the hotel?” Stiles asked. “Please?”

Derek settled his head down onto his paws and looked up at Stiles.

“I don’t know what that means, dude.”

**< Don’t call me dude.>**

“What!” Stiles flailed, falling backwards onto his butt. “Derek! You could talk to me this whole time, and you were just choosing not to?”

Derek’s ears flattened against his skull and he huffed out a sharp breath. Stiles wasn’t sure if he felt guilty, or if he was just pouting.

“You know you can’t stay here.” Stiles propped his hands behind him to support his weight. “Just…let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll sleep in the chair, and if I’m still tired I’ll just nap in the car while you drive. I’m good at sleeping on long car trips. When I was little, my parents used to drive down to Yosemite, Sequoia, Redwood, that sort of thing. Mom really liked trees.”

He looked down at Derek, who had pricked up his ears and was looking at him with his head tilted.

“Would you please say something?”

**< You wanted a donut.>**

“What?” Stiles blinked at Derek, who tilted his muzzle towards the entrance to the donut shop. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Derek settled back onto his paws and let his eyes drift shut.

“I don’t want a donut, Derek! I want you to stop being. Ugh.”

Derek cracked one eye open. If wolves could glare, Derek would have burned a hole through Stiles’ skull.

Stiles sighed. He did, actually, want a donut, and he’d been pestering Derek since they’d left Redding, so he knew it too. Voodoo Doughnut was open twenty four hours, and it would definitely be less crowded now than at nine in the morning, when he’d initially planned on going. Besides, for all his protests, maybe Derek had wanted a donut, too.

“Okay, I…whatever, fine, I’ll get us donuts and then we’re going back to the hotel.” He straightened and stuffed his hands in his pockets before looking down at Derek. He had curled up into a horseshoe shape, his chest rising and falling with every breath. “I am sorry, you know. That I…did what I did.”

Stiles wasn’t really expecting a reply, but he still had to push down a wave of disappointment as he went inside the shop and walked up to the counter. Stiles was talking to the guy behind the counter, pointing at a donut encrusted with crushed Oreos, when Derek’s voice echoed in his head.

**< I know.>**

***

“I got, uh, a couple different kinds. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.” He reached in the bag and pulled out a maple bacon donut, thrusting it in Derek’s direction. “The guy behind the counter kept looking at me weird. I don’t know what his deal was.”

Derek turned his muzzle away.

“You don’t want the bacon? Guess I should have gotten you lemon filled instead, since you’re so sour. Would you have liked that better, huh?” He shook his head. “Just be glad I didn’t get you the donut shaped like a penis.”

Derek just huffed at him, setting his face down on his front legs.

“Well, if you’re not going to eat, can we go back now?” Stiles gestured towards the car, parked slightly crookedly in the slanted parking spots in front of the donut shop. He waited for Derek to make any sign of having heard him, but was summarily ignored. “Derek, come on.”

Derek huffed again, but didn’t move.

Frustrated, Stiles walked over to the car, threw the donuts in the back seat, and slammed the front door shut after climbing in on the driver’s side. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the headrest. **< I just want to go back to the hotel and get some sleep,>** he thought, not entirely sure if Derek would be able to parse his message. **< Then we can get this stupid thing removed, and you can go back to your life without being constantly tied to an annoying, spazzy, graceless teenager.>**

**< That’s not the problem.>**

Stiles cracked open one eye. Derek was still huddled in the alcove, but his eyes were bright blue beacons in the darkness, and they were pointed straight at Stiles.

 **< Well,>** Stiles thought, **< what’s the problem, then?>**

**< You shouldn’t be tied to me.>**

**< Maybe I like it,>** Stiles said, feeling his eyes and mouth pinch as he glared over at Derek through the windshield. **< Can you just get in the damn car?>**

Derek got to his feet, seemingly still waiting for something. Stiles reached across the empty seat to open the passenger side door, and Derek padded over to the car.

“Thank you, finally,” Stiles said, moving to put the key in the ignition, but Derek placed a paw on his wrist to stop him.

 **< Do you…>** Derek stopped, the base of his tail twitching. Stiles got the sense it was a tail wag of nerves and frustration, rather than joy. **< Do you know what consent is?>**

“Yes, I know what consent is. Look, just because the law in California is dumb, doesn’t mean—”

**< I wasn’t talking about you.>**

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to meet Derek’s, but it did nothing to stop the sudden plummeting feeling in his stomach. “What?”

**< I didn’t give _my_ consent. >**

Stiles felt his muscles clench as he stared over at Derek, who was somehow managing to make a wag look judgmental. He lowered his paw slowly and looked pointedly over at the still open passenger door. Stiles reached over and pulled it shut before shrinking back into his seat.

“I didn’t,” Stiles said, swallowing around a dry throat. “Derek, I didn’t think—”

**< I know.>**

“Oh my god, are you saying I just…did I…does that count as rape? I mean, because you could feel me through the bond and I—”

**< Stiles.>**

Stiles clamped his mouth shut, pressing further back into his seat. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt a pressure on his thigh, and when he opened his eyes, Derek was pressing his paw into his leg, moved halfway onto Stiles’ seat. His sad, open face looked at him with literal puppy dog eyes.

“Derek,” Stiles said, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. That he was thoughtless and clueless, that he hadn’t been thinking about Derek, but only of himself? It wasn’t like any of that excused his behavior.

**< I’m not mad.>**

“You should be!” The words sounded foreign to his ears, as if someone else was shouting, someone else was breathing in short bursts and on the verge of tears.

**< Stiles, stop.>**

Stiles could feel his heart beating in his chest, sharp and painful, every thrum responding to an answering drumbeat in Derek’s chest.

**< It’s okay.>**

Stiles shut his eyes, only to be startled into opening them by the sensation of a rough, moist strip dragging up the side of his face. He flailed away, caught by surprise.

“What the hell, Derek? Did you just _lick_ me?”

Derek darted forward, this time drawing a long, wet lick from his chin up to his eyebrow, leaving a sticky trail of saliva along Stiles’ cheek and eyelid.

“Gross!” Stiles said, and shoved Derek back into his own seat. “Bad werewolf!”

Derek let his tongue loll out of his mouth and sat back on his haunches, looking about as smug as Stiles had ever seen him, in human form or otherwise.

Stiles’ heart thumped painfully in his chest, and he opened and closed his mouth.

Derek had licked him so that he’d stop freaking out. What’s more, it had actually worked. Derek had successfully cheered him up. Stiles bit his lip, staring over at Derek in silence for a moment, before reaching into the back for the pink cardboard box he’d set there earlier.

“Besides the maple bacon, I got cream filled, plain chocolate raised and old fashioned, ‘cause I didn’t know what was your favorite,” he said, using a stray piece of tissue paper to grab the Oreo-encrusted specimen for himself.

Derek leaned over and snatched the donut from Stiles’ hand, snapping it up in two bites.

“Hey! That one was mine!” Stiles frowned over at Derek, who had settled down into the passenger seat, resting his head on his front paws and licking his chops. “Jerk.”

There was a beat of silence as Stiles put the box back behind him, chewing on his lip as he watched Derek’s dark form curled up in the seat beside him.

This time, when Stiles tried to turn the car on, Derek didn’t stop him. Once they reached the hotel, he even followed Stiles up the stairs and into their room without prompting. He didn’t let Stiles sleep in the chair, though; he jumped up onto the yellow cushion almost as soon as they got in the door, and refused to budge no matter how much Stiles cajoled.

As Stiles collapsed onto the bed, he figured guilt and exhaustion ought to keep any further boners at bay. And even if they didn’t, he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He’d learned his lesson, okay, and he knew there was more than just his own sanity at stake.

Besides, they had less than a day to go until they reversed the spell, and then Stiles’ dick would be his own again.

Right?


	12. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if anyone noticed that the final chapter count went from 19 to 20, this is why. I wasn't originally planning on posting this, but I kind of like the glimpse into Derek's POV.
> 
> The next full chapter goes up tomorrow! :D

Derek wakes up with opposable thumbs, a crick in his neck and a raging migraine.

The clock on the nightstand reads 5:54, and Derek lets out an involuntary whine.

The lump beneath the yellow comforter twitches, then stills.

Derek stands up gingerly, tilting his neck back and forth until he hears his vertebrae crack. He pads over to his luggage and squats down, digging through it until he finds the bag of beef jerky that had been last night’s dinner.

Two pieces of jerky clear his head, but it’s still only quarter past six, and the longer Stiles sleeps, the easier it will be for Derek. He gets dressed and ventures down to the hotel lobby.

It’s quiet here, in the way that only early morning Sundays can be. He’s the only one in the lobby, since breakfast doesn’t start until 8:30. The girl behind the reception desk casts him a curious glance when he arrives, but soon goes back to one-handed texting.

Derek tucks himself into the corner of one of the blue and green patterned couches and wishes fiercely for a book to read.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on the sound of his own breathing.

He has to do something about Stiles. Last night should never have happened, and Derek can’t help but feel betrayed—by Stiles, and his own body, and his inability to just leave Stiles alone until he finished his shower.

But he had been so angry when he’d woken up last night and felt phantom hands on him. 

Now, he feels none of the blistering rage that had pulled him into the bathroom and toward Stiles. He just feels tired.

By the time he opens his eyes again, the sun is slanting through the blinds and filling the room with a warm glow. His headache is still throbbing quietly behind his temples, but it’s no longer debilitating.

He walks around the hotel for a bit. The people in room 110 are having sex, and Derek glares at the door as he passes. They know that the walls are thin, right?

True to Stiles’ word, there don’t appear to be any sources of cheap snacks. The lone vending machine carries Pepsi products, and Derek stands in front of it for a long moment, wondering whether it’s worth the $2.00 just for a Mountain Dew.

Derek sighs and trudges back to the room.

Stiles snores. It’s not horrendously loud, just a gentle buzzing sound whenever he lies on his back. It makes Derek think of the purring of a cat.

He finds himself staring at the way Stiles’ lips fall open in sleep.

What a creep.

He rifles through his bag and digs out a sudoku book and a pen (pencils are for wimps, he imagines Laura saying) before he heads back down to the lobby.

It’s compelling enough to occupy him until breakfast, at which point he snags a muffin and a Styrofoam cup of apple juice from the continental “buffet” the bored texting girl sets up in the lobby.

A few bedraggled customers come down and poke at the food offerings. A middle aged woman towing a sleepy-eyed toddler smiles shyly in Derek’s direction.

Derek calls it quits when the couple from 110 clatter into the lobby, smelling of sex and wearing matching dopey grins. The taller man smacks his partner on the ass before sitting down.

Judging from Single Mom’s grimace, she is about as excited by their PDA as Derek is.

Derek goes back to the room and tries another sudoku puzzle, but he finds himself glancing up towards the lump huddled in the center of the yellow bedspread.

He’s just glad the bond only seems to transfer physical sensation, and not emotion.

Stiles looks fragile in sleep. The comforter moves up and down with his breathing. His face is only partially visible, the blanket pulled up past his chin. Now that he’s let his hair grow out, it falls across his forehead in messy strands.

Derek turns away. There’s no point in self-torture.

He decides to start packing up the car. The less time Stiles spends awake and pestering Derek, the better. If that means packing up his stuff for him and checking out of the hotel, well, at least it’ll keep Derek occupied.

On his way back through the lobby, he remembers that breakfast only goes until ten thirty, and Stiles might still be asleep by then.

He grabs a banana from the pitiful remains of the fruit basket, before thinking better of it and snagging an apple.

If he spends the next thirty minutes watching Stiles sleep, well, that’s his own business.


	13. Mixed Signals (Or: The light, it burns)

“Stiles.”

Stiles groaned and burrowed further into the sheets. Why was there so much light? Light was annoying. Light had no place in Stiles’ slumbers.

“Stiles, get up.”

That was Derek’s voice, wasn’t it? It sounded annoyed. Stiles wedged his arm up against his ear, so as to better block out the noise.

“ _Stiles._ ”

Something ripped the covers away from Stiles. No. This was terrible. How could Stiles sleep without covers? He pointed this out, very logically and rationally, by uttering a low-pitched whine.

Derek shoved him. “Check out is in ten—no, make that seven—minutes. We need to _leave_.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles said, eyes flying open as he scrambled to a sitting position. “Shit, what time is it? Dammit, Derek, why did you let me sleep so long?”

Derek merely rolled his eyes and dumped a pile of clothes in Stiles’ lap. “Get dressed, and meet me out front. I’m going to turn in the room key.”

“Wha—hey, where’s my stuff?” He could have sworn he had at least taken his backpack in the hotel room. And the donuts. And where had the change of clothes come from, anyway? Had Derek been rummaging through his belongings?

“I put it in the car,” Derek said, already halfway out the door. He paused and tossed an apple at Stiles’ head.

Stiles flailed outwards with his arms and just barely managed to catch it. “Party foul! You almost brained me with this.”

“Hurry up,” Derek said.

“Jerk!” Stiles yelled at the now-closed door, before taking a bite. It was actually pretty good, one of those fancy multicolored pink and yellow apples, Fuji or gala or something.

Stiles kept chewing as he discarded his old, smelly t-shirt and boxers and pulled on the replacement clothing Derek had dumped on him. He tossed the apple core in the trash by the bed, and was in the middle of checking the room for anything he might have missed, when there came a knocking on the front door.

Stiles scrambled to open it, only to see Derek standing outside, arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow raised in judgement.

“You’re slow,” Derek said, before immediately turning down the hall towards the stairs to the parking lot.

“Yeah, well, you’re stupid,” Stiles mumbled, letting the door shut behind him after only a moment’s hesitation and trailing after Derek to where he’d parked. He _probably_ hadn’t forgotten anything in the room. “And lame.”

Derek just unlocked the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. Stiles scrambled in next to him, tossing his dirty clothes into the back. He fastened his seatbelt as Derek navigated his way out of the parking lot.

Which was about all the time it took for things to get awkward.

“So,” Stiles said.

Derek stared grumpily at the road ahead.

“Did you sleep okay?” Stiles asked.

“Fine,” Derek said.

“Cool, cool. The chair wasn’t too uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“So how’s your head? Like, you don’t have a migraine, or anything?”

“It’s fine.”

“Well, that’s cool. I mean, I was kind of worried, because last time we were separated you told my dad you had a migraine, and we were definitely separated for longer this time.”

Dead silence.

“I’m okay though. In case you were wondering.”

Stiles shifted in his seat as Derek stared at the road ahead.

“It might be better for me because I slept through it, though. I don’t know. Did you sleep okay? I mean, you must have been up pretty early, since you put all our stuff in the car, and you grabbed an apple, though maybe you just beat up an old lady and stole it, how would I know?”

Okay, the silence was getting creepy now.

“I mean, if you were awake, you could have woken me up, too. You didn’t need to let me sleep in so late. We could have gotten an earlier start, or something.”

Derek sighed through his nose.

“But late is good! I mean, as long as we didn’t forget anything. Nice to have a lazy morning, right? I mean, checkout time at that hotel is sort of early, since most hotels let out at eleven, and your car clock is saying ten. Oh, crap, I forgot that your clock is off by an hour. Never mind.”

Stiles cleared his throat, but Derek was still staring impassively out at the traffic.

“So how about those Mets?” Stiles tried.

Derek twitched. “I’m more of a Yankees fan.”

Stiles gaped. “You _take that back_.”

“Maybe if the Mets could win against them.” And that was definitely the ghost of a smile, playing over Derek’s lips. Stiles mentally patted himself on the back.

“Oh, don’t you even front! They swept the Yankees last year. It’s just a matter of time before they reclaim their winning streak.”

Derek was openly smirking now, and Stiles grinned over at him. But when Derek’s eyes flicked over to meet Stiles’, his face fell, and he quickly turned back to the road, expression a blank mask.

“Derek—” Stiles bit his lip. There was really no way to not make this weird. “You have to be able to talk to me.”

Derek swallowed.

Stiles tracked the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“I mean, at a minimum, you need to tell me when I’m doing something you don’t like.” He managed a grin, before adding, “Such as, oh, I don’t know, talking incessantly?”

Derek cracked a smile at that and Stiles mentally fist pumped.

“Though, it’s going to be a really long five hours if I can’t spend them talking. Talking is my natural state, you don’t even know.”

“You were pretty quiet when you were sleeping,” Derek pointed out, an almost wistful expression on his face.

Stiles wanted to punch himself in the face, because if things had been normal between them, it would have been said with vindictive glee.

“Burn,” Stiles said anyway, and Derek flashed a hint of a smile before fading back to a vaguely pinched expression, his eyebrows drawn.

Stiles sighed. “Look, Derek, can we just…try to be normal?”

Derek actually snorted at that. “When have we ever been normal?”

“Well, okay, you have a point there. I just…” Stiles turned to stare out at the scenery outside the passenger window, as Derek turned onto the freeway onramp. “I want to be like before. Before I freaked out and accidentally married you. I liked it when you, you know, talked to me.”

Derek sighed audibly, and Stiles tried not to wince.

“Well,” Derek said, “maybe this will make you think twice about doing something without thinking about the consequences.”

Stiles did wince at that. He kept his eyes trained on the side view mirror, which was reflecting his face in all its constipated, guilt-stricken glory. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Derek said.

Stiles closed his eyes. Derek hadn’t sounded angry, exactly, but he hadn’t sounded like he had been filled with sunshine and butterflies, either.

“Okay,” Stiles said, after a long moment, his voice sticking in his throat. “Well, I’m just gonna, uh, shut up. For a bit. Don’t want you to strangle me before we get to Spokane, or something.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Stiles glanced over.

Derek didn’t look annoyed, really. He looked more tired. Sad. Defeated.

Stiles shifted in his seat before reaching over to turn on the radio. Derek didn’t react when he started scanning for stations, so Stiles settled for a classic rock station and settled back in his seat, mouthing along with Kansas and thinking about angels and their boyfriends driving down the freeway.

***

An hour later, Stiles’ stomach growled.

“When are we gonna stop for food?” Stiles asked.

“We’re not,” Derek said. “What happened to the apple I got you?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Um, I ate it before we left. Like two hours ago.”

Derek just sighed, like the drama queen he was.

“I don’t know why you didn’t get me a bagel or something,” Stiles continued. “You know, apples are nothing but fiber, water, and fructose and they break down pretty much instantly, so of course I’m freaking hungry. I probably spent more calories chewing than I consumed.”

“Eat a donut, then.”

Stiles frowned. “Come on, that’s not proper sustenance. That’s, like, happy making food. It’s for emergencies and late night snacks.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but didn’t turn away from watching the road.

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles said. “But only because you ate the one I wanted. Which means the rest are _mine_.” He turned to reach into the back, but the box was just beyond the reach of his fingertips. He grunted as he craned back, extending his reach.

He was almost there, his lower lip between his teeth and his fingers grazing the edge of the cardboard, when his dick twitched in his pants.

Stiles squawked and knocked the donut box onto the floor. Either he had some heretofore unknown donut fetish, or there was something weird going on.

But then Stiles tensed, every muscle freezing, as he realized that he was feeling through the bond again.

Why the hell was Derek getting turned on? Stiles glanced towards the front seat, and sure enough, the back of Derek’s neck and the tips of his ears were flushed pink.

Stiles straightened in his seat, adjusting his shirt to pull it back down over his stomach, when it hit him.

“Oh my god, you think I’m hot!”

Derek glowered at the road ahead, his hands clenching against the steering wheel.

Stiles stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. “You totally do!”

“No,” Derek snapped, and Stiles didn’t need werewolf senses to tell that he was lying.

Derek Hale thought he was hot. Stiles was going to have to redefine his whole worldview.

Stiles cleared his throat. “So you made it pretty clear that you don’t want to have sex with me, but I’d just assumed it was because you thought I was weird looking.”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“Come on! This is blowing my mind right now. You have to give me time to process. That you,” Stiles said, waving his hands emphatically in Derek’s direction, “are actually attracted to me. Stiles Stilinski, one hundred forty pounds—well, okay, closer to one fifty five now—pale, dorky, graceless, seventeen year old—”

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek growled, his fingers tightening further on the steering wheel. If he started gripping it any harder, Stiles worried that it would snap in half. “I’m aware that you’re a minor, but thanks for the reminder.”

“Whatever, that doesn’t even matter.”

Derek snuck a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“It doesn’t! Look, there are plenty of states where the legal age is seventeen or even sixteen. I’m not _that_ young. Scott and Allison were doin’ it like freaking rabbits. You can’t tell me that I’m not allowed to touch your dick just because you’ve passed the magic eighteen year barrier.”

Derek growled, low in his throat.

“No, Stiles, you’re not allowed to touch my dick because _I don’t want you to._ ”

Stiles flinched back at the harsh edge to Derek’s words. “Um.”

“Fuck.” Derek’s shoulders slumped and his stormy expression melted into something weary and sad. “I didn’t mean.”

“Right,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice light. “No, I mean, consent is important. It’s cool, I get it.”

“Stiles—”

Stiles took a long, slow breath before he spoke.

“Look,” Stiles said. “I don’t want to fuck up again.”

Derek glanced over at Stiles, just for a split second, before turning back to the road, but that was enough.

“I just—I don’t want you to stop talking to me, because I did something shitty and didn’t realize it. I don’t want—

“I don’t want you to think that bleeding out in a coyote trap in the woods, alone, is better than this.” 

Derek blew out a sharp breath and flicked his turn signal before pulling onto the shoulder.

Stiles froze. “What are you doing?”

“I’m stopping,” Derek said, before turning off the car and flinging the door open before he’d even finished unfastening his seatbelt.

The door slammed shut with a crash and Derek stalked over to the front of the car, where he turned away from Stiles, knelt onto the ground, and buried his hands in his hair.

 **< Derek,>** Stiles thought, without entirely meaning to.

Derek jerked back to look at him through the windshield before stumbling to his feet, hands balled into fists. **< Stay in the car.>**

**< Fuck. What did I do wrong?>**

Derek threw his head back, staring up at the overcast sky, before his hands unclenched at his sides.

 **< Nothing,>** he said, dropping his head down to look straight at Stiles. He didn’t look upset anymore; his eyes were searching, flicking back and forth and up and down before locking with Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles swallowed, his tongue thick in his mouth, and tried not to let his undercurrent of panicked thoughts leak through the bond to Derek.

**< Give me five minutes, okay?>**

Stiles blinked back at Derek, caught off guard by the request. When was the last time Derek had asked something, instead of just commanding it?

**< I need to focus on my anchor.>**

**< Yeah, okay,>** Stiles thought, and screwed his eyes shut.

***

Just under five minutes later, Stiles heard the click of the driver’s side door open.

“Thanks,” Derek said, not looking at Stiles. He slotted the key back in the ignition and checked his blind spot before pulling back out onto the freeway.

He looked strangely zen, centered and calm. Stiles couldn’t remember ever seeing that expression on his face before. Not in his proximity, anyway.

“So,” Stiles said, trying to keep his voice casual.

From the way Derek side-eyed him, he wasn’t being very successful.

Stiles pushed forward, anyway. “Did you commune with your anchor, out there? You’re all…anchored up?”

Derek turned his head briefly, pinning Stiles with his gaze, before he turned back to the road. “Yes.”

“Cool.” Stiles frowned. “Wait, I thought your anchor was the pack.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth was curled up now, in just the hint of a smile, and Stiles just hoped he wasn’t going to jinx Derek’s current good mood.

Stiles wasn’t going to ruin the fragile peace. Nope. He was going to stay quiet, for once.

He wasn’t going to break the silence.

He was going to wait for Derek to say something first.

Derek wasn’t saying anything.

“You’re not going to freak out on me again, are you?” Stiles blurted. “Like, if I look at you wrong?”

Derek’s smirk grew, and Stiles resisted the urge to shrink back in his seat. “No guarantees.”

After a few moments of silence—which Derek seemed to be enjoying just fine, but which just left Stiles feeling itchy and restless—Derek cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, and Stiles snapped up to stare at him. His smirk was gone. “This bond has been…difficult. For me.”

“I know,” Stiles said, once he had recovered from the shock that was Derek Hale, apologizing. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you freak out like that before, so.”

Derek’s mouth twitched. “Probably not.”

Stiles turned to stare out the passenger-side window. “You shouldn’t have to apologize. You’re not the one who fu—messed up.”

Derek remained silent, and Stiles spent a few minutes watching the trees pass by outside.

His stomach, though, had other plans, and grumbled audibly as they passed the turnoff for Walla Walla. Stiles started in his seat, suddenly reminded of the donuts in the backseat, now knocked onto the floor behind his chair.

When he craned back to look, though, it seemed like retrieving the box would either require him to remove his seatbelt, or to contort himself into some sort of pretzel. He made a half-hearted grab around the seat back, groaning when his fingers encountered empty air.

“We can stop,” Derek said. “If you want.”

“For food?” Stiles asked, whirling around and pulling his arm back against his chest.

“No, for hookers and booze,” Derek said, rolling his eyes.

Stiles settled back in his seat. “Yeah, I’d be up for some hookers.” He smirked over at Derek.

Derek was quiet for a moment. “So are you going to look it up on your phone, or what?”

“Right!” Stiles said, scrambling to extract his phone from his pocket. His face felt hot, but he refused to look in Derek’s direction to see if he’d noticed.

***

Stiles insisted that Derek come inside the Taco Bell with him, just to see the faces he would make. To his surprise, Derek ended up ordering a caramel apple empanada.

“What happened to ‘chemicals and despair’?” Stiles asked, biting into his quesarito with gusto.

“I like the caramel filling,” Derek said, and then proceeded to glare at Stiles for the duration of their meal.


	14. Magic Spells (Or: Like the oracle, but with fruit)

“So,” Stiles said, as Derek put the car into park and turned off the engine.

The sky overhead was a fading pink as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“This is it. The end of the line. The light at the end of the tunnel. The end of the tunnel at the light of the—I’ve got nothing.”

Derek just raised an eyebrow in Stiles’ direction and hopped out of the car.

They were parked in front of an old sprawling two-story house, surrounded by evergreen trees. The driveway was surrounded on either side by a patchy, overgrown lawn that was replete with dandelions, and the wood siding on the house looked weathered, faded by years of exposure to snow and sunshine.

Stiles followed Derek up the front steps and fidgeted with the sleeves of his hoodie as Derek pressed the doorbell.

“Do you think we should knock?” Stiles asked, but Derek just shook his head, and what felt like an eternity later, the door swung open.

A plump woman, with dark brown skin and frizzy white hair pulled back into a bun, beamed at them from the doorway. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt (proclaiming her to be #1 Mom) over ratty old sweatpants, which Stiles didn’t think was very emissary-like.

When her gaze flicked over to Stiles, though, her smile evaporated.

“I _thought_ ,” she said, “you two weren’t in a relationship?”

“What?” Stiles asked, but when he turned to Derek to look for help, his face was flushed red and he was avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t looked in a mirror lately, have you, kid?” the woman asked, before turning and opening the door wide behind her. “Come on in, and I’ll see if what I have prepared is enough to get you sorted.”

“You’re Willow, right?” Stiles asked, before turning to Derek and mouthing ‘what.’ Derek was still ignoring him, though, so Stiles followed Willow into the house.

“Yes, indeed. I take it you’re Stiles?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles replied, trying to keep his voice cheerful. This was made more difficult by the fact that Stiles could sense Derek drilling a hole through the back of his head.

“And this here is your werewolf friend?” Willow asked, smiling at a point over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Derek,” he said, from behind Stiles. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s the _least_ I can do,” Willow said, and then she shook her head and sighed. 

Stiles threw Derek a confused glance. He just shrugged, though, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“So,” Willow said, as they entered the kitchen. She pulled two chairs away from the table and gestured for them to sit. “I hear you have a bonding spell that you’d like to remove.”

Derek sat down silently, lifting his eyebrows at Stiles when he didn’t move towards the other chair. “Uh,” Stiles said, hastily moving to take a seat, looking around the open kitchen. The walls and cabinets were all white with gleaming brass knobs, and the floor was some light-colored wood that Stiles couldn’t identify. He knew it wasn’t mountain ash, at least. There were a few dirty pans sitting in the sink, but otherwise the kitchen was almost spotless. Stiles cocked his head to better inspect the painting of the pig in a chef’s hat, saying “Bon Appetit!” that was mounted above the stove.

**< Stiles.>**

Stiles jerked in his seat, turning his head to look at Derek. “Pay attention,” Derek said, his voice soft.

Willow set down a platter of fruit in front of them before sitting down herself.

Stiles stared down at the pineapple, melon, and strawberries in confusion. “Do we have to eat this?”

Derek made a strangled noise. “She’s being a polite host, Stiles.”

“Oh!” Stiles snagged a strawberry and popped it in his mouth, hoping the color of the fruit would hide the blush he could feel rising to his cheeks. “I thought it was for the spell, or something.”

Willow smiled at both of them before stabbing a chunk of honeydew with a toothpick. “Before we begin, I’d like to clarify a couple things.”

“You’re totally the oracle,” Stiles blurted.

Derek and Willow both turned to stare at him.

“From the Matrix.”

Willow frowned. “Because I’m black? And old?”

“Oh my god, no!” Stiles said, slashing his hands in front of his face frantically. “Like, she’s psychic, which is sort of like being magic, and she bakes cookies. So you’re like a health-conscious version since you served fruit.”

“I see,” Willow said, clearly not seeing at all.

Stiles recognized her expression, okay, it was saying _back away from the crazy person_. “Also your kitchen has the same feel. Very, uh, homey.”

 **< Don’t break a vase,>** Derek thought, and Stiles had to repress a snort.

“Are you two done?” Willow asked, irritation laced through her tone. “I can tell you right now, the ritual I have prepared isn’t going to work.”

“What?” Stiles squeaked. “What do you mean?”

She waved between them. “Obviously the bond is much stronger than I realized, if you’re already communicating mentally.”

Derek cringed.

Stiles just frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, already?” he asked. “We’ve been doing that since the bond first came online.”

“Stiles,” Derek snapped.

“What? You were talking in my head right after I felt your broken leg!”

Willow’s eyes widened. “Derek, can I speak with you?”

Derek frowned, brow furrowing in what Stiles had always assumed to be derision, but lately had come to recognize as confusion.

“Alone,” Willow added, her smile pinched.

The color drained from Derek’s face, and his muscles tensed up all at once. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so terrified. Maybe when Cora was dying.

 **< Hey, it can’t be that bad,>** Stiles thought. **< Don’t freak out.>**

Derek turned to him, a thunderous expression on his face. “Don’t do that!”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, shrinking back in his chair. “Chill. I was just trying to help.”

“Derek,” Willow said, much less kindly sounding. “Upstairs, please.” She rose to her feet and towered over the both of them.

Derek’s shoulders slumped, and he pushed his chair back from the table before rising. If he were in his wolf form, his tail would definitely be tucked between his legs.

“So,” Stiles said, over-loud, as the two of them exited the kitchen, “I’ll just be in here, then. Eating this fruit.”

***

When Derek and Willow finally came downstairs, Stiles had eaten half of the fruit tray and improved his high score on Bejeweled three times.

“So?” he asked, exiting to the home screen and tucking his phone back in his pocket. “What’s the verdict?”

Derek refused to meet Stiles’ eyes, looking down at the floor and radiating quiet misery.

Willow cleared her throat. “What I have won’t be enough to break the bond,” she said, simply, and Stiles grimaced. “I’ll need at least twelve hours to prepare the new spell. Possibly longer. No more than a few days, if we’re lucky.”

“A few—a few _days_?” Stiles asked. “Are you _serious_?”

Willow raised her eyebrows and settled both hands on her hips. Stiles had never seen a woman look so intimidating in sweat pants.

Derek just stared at the floor as his cheeks flushed a splotchy red.

“You two,” Willow chided, “have been strengthening the bond this entire time. It’s going to require a much stronger severing process. I’m going to need two things from both of you.” She glanced at Derek, who was standing off to the side with his shoulders hunched. “Oh, stop that. It’s not the end of the world.”

Stiles stood and walked over to Derek, resting his hand on his shoulder and squeezing before turning back to Willow. “Okay, what do you need?”

The edge of Willow’s mouth curled up in a smile as she looked down at Stiles’ hand, but she quickly straightened and cleared her throat.

“First off,” she said, “you have to stop using the bond. That means no telepathy, and no sharing of sensations. Think of the bond like a muscle; when you exert effort, stretch the muscle, it grows stronger. If you don’t cause it to become activated, it weakens.”

“It’s not like I’m _trying_ —” Stiles protested, but a sharp look cut him off.

“Second,” she continued, “you must remain together. Again, the bond is designed to compensate for separation. Don’t let it do its job, and—hopefully—it won’t get any stronger.”

“So that’s…it? We just have to stay together and don’t use our mystical bond powers?”

Willow sighed. “Yes.”

Derek tugged his shoulder out of Stiles’ grip and walked up to Willow, tilting his head in a nod. It almost looked like Derek was bowing, or something.

“Thank you for your help,” Derek said.

Willow’s stern expression softened as she looked at Derek. “It’s not a problem, Derek. I’m just tired of cleaning up after my son’s mistakes.”

Derek shook his head, but he hesitated for a beat. “This isn’t his fault.”

Willow glanced over at Stiles, her mouth twisting into a smile. “I don’t think your friend would agree.”

Stiles frowned. “What the hell are you guys talking about?” he asked, but Derek just shrugged and walked down the long corridor to the house’s entryway. Willow shook her head and disappeared down a different hallway, leaving Stiles alone in the kitchen.

He glanced between them. “Uh, guys?” Derek was already opening the front door to the house and stepping outside. Stiles jolted and jogged to catch up with him.

“Seriously, what was that about?” Stiles asked, as soon as the door had shut behind them. 

Derek just rolled his eyes as he walked back to the car. “Nothing.”

Stiles rolled his own eyes and opted to change the subject. “So,” Stiles said as he slid into the passenger seat. “We, uh, have a few more days with the bond, huh?”

Derek sighed, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Do we have a hotel reservation?”

“No. I didn’t think we’d be staying overnight.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “So, what was your plan, exactly? Get here? Remove the bond? And then, what?”

“And then jerk off?” Stiles shrugged. “Ugh, I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I figured we’d just drive straight back.”

Derek closed his eyes and collapsed back in the driver’s seat. “You’re an idiot.” He opened his eyes and frowned over at Stiles. “ _I’m_ an idiot,” he corrected.

“Hey, now,” Stiles said, glaring at Derek, “we may both be idiots, but at least we’re…both idiots. Whatever.”

Derek let out a quiet laugh.

Stiles stuck out his tongue at him before fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. “You need me to look up a hotel?”

Derek shook his head. “Willow said we could stay in the spare bedroom.” He reached over to turn the key in the ignition.

“Wait, then where are we going?”

“To the mall,” Derek said. “There’s an Orange Julius.”

“You need a smoothie to calm your rage?” Stiles asked, feeling his lips quirk up into a smirk.

“The smoothie enhances my rage, Stiles.” Derek raised an eyebrow. He put the car in gear before turning the car around and going back the way they had come, down the long winding driveway. “I thought you knew that by now.”

***

“Okay, so this has been bothering me,” Stiles said, and Derek looked up from his drink, straw still held loosely between his lips.

Stiles tore his gaze away from Derek’s mouth. “So this bond thing, right, your parents had it?”

“Yes.”

“So informative, Derek, thanks,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn’t being able to feel each other’s pain be, like, a liability? What if one of them got captured by hunters?”

“It would have let them locate each other,” Derek said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but it also meant they’d feel each other’s pain. Like, who likes _more_ pain?”

When Stiles looked up, Derek was staring down at his drink, and his cheeks were faintly pink.

“Are you a masochist, Derek? You’re totally thinking about BDSM right now, aren’t you?”

Derek huffed and took a long sip of his smoothie. “No.”

“Don’t lie, Derek, I bet you’re into that kinky stuff.”

Derek just raised an eyebrow.

“Okay! Fine. No fuzzy handcuffs for you.” Stiles shook his head to clear that particular image. “So,” Stiles said, drawing out the vowel, “was that their main reason for the bond, then? They wanted to be able to find each other? Come on, there has to be more to it than that.”

Stiles watched Derek’s cheeks hollow as he sucked around the straw, even as his eyes crinkled up in amusement. “Maybe,” Derek said.

“Maybe? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” Stiles kicked at Derek’s shin under the table. “I mean, I would assume being able to read each other’s minds would cut down on the number of arguments.”

Derek pulled off the straw with a soft pop, and Stiles forced himself to breathe through his nose and think about polynomial equations.

“Not really,” Derek said. “You’d never be able to stop yourself from answering the ‘Does this make my butt look big’ question.”

“Come on, it’s not like werewolves aren’t already walking lie detectors. I mean, really, how do you keep any secrets?”

“You don’t.”

“That must be awful.”

Derek pursed his lips before saying, “It’s different for us.”

“For grumpy leather-clad bad boys?”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Stiles said, “did you guys have any privacy, growing up?”

“It’s not like we had soundproofing in our house. Everyone could hear, and smell, what everyone else was doing.”

Stiles frowned. “What are you saying? That you knew exactly what your parents were getting up to in the bedroom? And vice versa?”

“Pretty much.”

“How did you survive puberty?”

Derek smiled, slightly feral, and Stiles felt a shiver crawl up his spine. “I didn’t try to be quiet.”

Stiles may or may not have choked on his smoothie. Once he’d stopped coughing, he grimaced at Derek. “Thanks for that image.”

Derek’s smile grew softer as he glanced down at his hands, still cradling his cup. “There were a couple months, back in high school, when it got really bad. Laura and I kept trying to one-up each other with how loud we got, until Mom grounded us both.”

“Please tell me the two of you didn’t jerk it at the same time. That’s just weird. And pseudo-incestual.”

“No,” Derek said, the ‘idiot’ implied.

Stiles took another sip of his drink, spending a few minutes swinging his legs back and forth under the table, letting the silence settle into his bones.

“So,” Stiles said, after draining the last of his smoothie, “were your parents into the BDSM scene?”

Derek glowered over at Stiles. “Seriously?”

“I’m just saying, if the bond lets you feel pain, that could lead to some awesomely kinky spanking sessions.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows. For emphasis, obviously.

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek said, looking like he was trying to fight back a smile.

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, suppressing the urge to laugh, “it’s cool, I don’t like to think about my parents having freaky dominatrix sex, either.”

“Did they?”

“Ugh,” Stiles said, shuddering. “I sincerely hope not. I’m just going to pretend they made love on a pile of bear skin rugs under the glow of candlelight, with all the floppy bits strategically censored.”

Derek shook his head, a soft smile spreading over his face. “Idiot,” he chided, tapping Stiles on the forehead.

Stiles could feel heat rise to his cheeks, but it didn’t stop the stupid grin he could feel splitting his face in two. “Takes one to know one,” he countered. His insides felt warm despite the cold smoothie. It was strange, how much he liked Derek some days.

He _really_ liked Derek in this moment.

**< You’re not so bad, yourself.>**

Stiles jumped when Derek’s voice echoed through his head, but when he looked up from his drink, Derek was looking off to the side, completely nonchalant.

“I think I saw a game store downstairs,” Derek said, after a moment of silence.

“Yeah?” Stiles asked, ignoring the steady thump-thump of his heart in his chest. “Want to check it out?”

Derek nodded. Stiles could have sworn Derek’s cheeks were red, but it might have been the lighting.


	15. Soulbond (Or: Something out of a horror movie)

By the time they got back to Willow’s mansion-house, it was already dark outside, the stars shining faintly and the moon a perfect orb overhead. Stiles lingered in the driveway for long minutes, staring up at the sky, until Derek hissed at him to come inside.

Stiles followed Derek up the spiral staircase to the second floor, past the seriously creepy doll collection bedecking the hallway, and to a door sporting a cheerful wooden sign proclaiming “Rest Your Head.”

“This is something out of a horror movie, I swear,” Stiles stage-whispered. Derek shushed him with a baleful glance and pushed open the door.

It looked like the kind of room you’d find in a bed and breakfast. In one corner a floral-patterned antique armchair was layered with hand-crocheted blankets, pastel throw pillows, and yet another porcelain doll.

Stiles slipped his backpack straps off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a solid thunk, and walked over to the armchair to inspect the doll more closely.

“Hey, this one looks a little like Lydia,” Stiles commented, prodding at the doll’s strawberry curls. “Seriously, this is creeping me out, I don’t know if I can sleep with this in the room.”

Derek rolled his eyes, plucked the doll out of Stiles’ grasp, and stuffed it under one of the throw pillows. “Happy now?”

“Oh, yeah, murder the doll, that won’t cause it to seek revenge or anything.”

“You’re so weird,” Derek said, but he looked like a mix of bemused and fond.

Stiles felt the words warm up his insides. “You know it,” he said, throwing Derek a wink, before turning to stare at the rose-patterned bedspread. “This bed is _definitely_ smaller than the last one.”

“It’s the same size as your bed at home,” Derek said, toeing off his shoes and laying his leather jacket over where he’d hidden the doll’s lifeless body.

“What, really?” Stiles asked, inspecting the pink and yellow monstrosity. “It looks smaller. Like, super small.”

Derek shrugged, padding over to the bed and lifting up the covers. “Your bed’s small, too.”

“Not _that_ small,” Stiles said, walking over to the foot of the bed. He dropped down on the carpet, his feet splayed out in front of him, his back propped up against the footboard.

Derek just sighed, dropping the covers and walking over to inspect the crooked wooden cupboard standing in the opposite corner of the armchair. There were more dolls sitting on top, posed to have their arms looped around each other. “TV in here,” he commented, opening the doors with a creak of the hinges.

“The TV is small, too,” Stiles complained, because hey, he had nothing better to do. “Is everything in this place small? The beds, the dolls, the televisions?”

“The fruit tray was big,” Derek said, his hands tracing around the outer edge of the television, presumably searching for a power button. He grunted and stepped back as the screen bloomed to life. He pulled open one of the drawers, rifling through it until he emerged with a remote control grasped in his fist.

When he turned around and looked down at Stiles, his eyes lingered just a bit too long.

Stiles could feel his cheeks heating up as Derek walked over and settled on the floor next to him, crossing his legs and leaning forward with his elbows propped on his thighs.

“You wanna watch something?” Stiles asked, willing his voice not to crack.

Derek shrugged, but pointed the remote upwards in a loose grip and started flipping through channels.

Every so often, Stiles would shift, and Derek’s knee would brush up against Stiles’ thigh, warm through the layers of denim.

They settled on the History Channel, some show about pirates, and Stiles felt his eyes fluttering shut more than once. He finally gave up fighting it, letting his head loll back against the footboard and his eyes drift shut.

“Stiles,” Derek said, breaking through the warm haze.

Stiles tried to open his eyes, but his head felt fuzzy. “Der’k?” He shifted until he could feel the warm press of Derek’s thigh against his own. “Time is it?”

When Stiles eyes did open, he saw Derek’s face, just a few inches away. Derek’s eyes were dark, only visible through the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand and the soft glow of the television screen.

“Late,” Derek said, before turning his face away.

Stiles sighed, the breath coming out in a low hiss as he exhaled. “Don’ wanna go to bed.”

“So you’re just going to sleep on the floor?” Derek asked.

“Don’ laugh at me,” Stiles protested. “I’m too tired for bed.”

Instead of laughing, or rolling his eyes, or leaving him alone, Derek reached over and scooped Stiles into his arms.

Stiles held his breath as every muscle in his body froze up.

Well, not quite every muscle. It was hard—okay, bad choice of phrasing—to control himself when Derek was so close. He smelled like sweat and pine trees, or what Stiles imagined pine trees would smell like if they were accompanied by sculpted abdominals. Abdominals which were pressing up against Stiles’ side, because he was being cradled to Derek’s chest.

Oh god, Derek Hale was carrying Stiles to the bed, bridal style.

Derek walked over and deposited him gently on the left side of the bed. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Stiles with his eyebrows creased and his shoulders drawn up nearly to his ears.

“Um. I’m really sorry,” Stiles said.

“It’s fine,” Derek said, before turning and fleeing.

Stiles swore, low in his throat, and smacked the back of his head against the headboard for good measure. “Derek, come back,” he said, but there was no sound of acknowledgement.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Stiles continued, trying to ignore the slowly rising sense of helplessness. “I’m sorry I freaked out about you carrying me. It was nice.” He realized what he had just said, and panicked. “Nice of you! Not, like, nice, as in I enjoyed it. I mean, I did enjoy it, obviously. Which I’ve already apologized about.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

On the plus side, the mortification seemed to have resolved the problem in his pants. “I think it’s gone now,” Stiles added.

Derek was suspiciously silent.

“Derek, please just say something, oh my god, I’m going to have to commit seppuku after this. This is so embarrassing.”

 **< You say that as though you’re the only one who’s embarrassed,> **Derek said, his mental voice sounding vaguely irritated.

**< Why the hell would you be embarrassed—hey, we’re not supposed to use the bond. Why are you using the bond?>**

**< I didn’t want to wake up Willow,>** Derek replied, but there was something weird in his mental-voice that gave Stiles pause.

“Okay,” Stiles murmured.

**< Yeah.>**

“Look, just, shit, I should probably brush my teeth anyway.”

Stiles flung himself off the bed and made a beeline for his backpack.

 **< Give me a minute,>** Derek said, as Stiles was still searching for his toothpaste.

Stiles frowned as he rifled through his bag, feeling fleeting echoes of Derek’s own fingers rubbing against denim, thumb and forefinger gripping against metal and the tips of his fingers brushing against fabric—

“Oh my god, I can feel you peeing,” Stiles complained, and the phantom sensation of hands on his dick stopped abruptly.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek growled, sounding utterly mortified.

Stiles burst through the bathroom door as Derek was still fumbling with his zipper.

Stiles ignored the dirty look Derek gave him. “It’s getting worse.”

“Of course it’s getting worse!” Derek hissed. “The damn thing is still forming.”

“Does this mean your parents could _feel each other pee_?” Stiles asked, horrified.

“No!” Derek snapped. He sagged backwards against the countertop, his elbows braced against the corian. “Well. In the beginning, maybe. They must have learned to control it over time.”

Stiles sighed. “Great, just fantastic. I’m guessing they didn’t tell you how they coped with the short term issues, since, you know.”

Derek actually looked confused at that. “Since…they were murdered?”

“Oh my god!” Stiles said, holding up his hands in front of him, placating. “Not what I meant! I was just going to say that most people don’t immediately annul their magical marriages.”

Derek raised a dubious eyebrow.

Stiles rolled his eyes, seeing his reflection mimic him in the bathroom mirror at Derek’s back. He flashed his mirror-self a grin before his eye caught on a dark patch of skin near the collar of his t-shirt.

“Oh, my god,” Stiles said, staring at the very obvious bruise and bite marks Derek had left on his neck. “ _No wonder_ the chick working at Orange Julius kept staring at me!”

Derek visibly flinched.

“You knew!” Stiles punched Derek in the arm, startling backward when he felt the echoing thump in his own. “You asshole! You knew, and you didn’t say anything!”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Stiles, you have a giant hickey on your neck, but you can’t actually do anything about it, since we don’t have any makeup and you didn’t bring any turtlenecks’?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a heads up might have been nice. Oh, fuck, that’s why the guy at Taco Bell told us _congratulations_.” Stiles glared. “You are the _worst_ werewolf husband ever.”

Derek just glared back in response.

“Can I brush my teeth now?” Stiles gestured towards the toilet. “Or do you still need to, uh, drain the lizard?”

Derek’s entire face pinched inwards, as though he couldn’t decide between being horrified and laughing out loud. “Did you really just say that?”

“Sorry, shall I come up with some synonyms for you? Empty your bladder, pee, let loose the dam, urinate, whizz, piss, do you want me to go on? Because I can—”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said. “And no.”

He stepped towards Stiles, who instinctively moved backwards. “Uh—”

“For god’s sake,” Derek said, before muscling his way past Stiles and back into the bedroom.

As Stiles brushed his teeth, he kept thinking about the way Derek could probably feel it too, the bristles rubbing up against his gums. Did werewolves get gum disease? Probably not, considering their magical healing properties. But what about, like, halitosis? Surely they must brush their teeth, if only to prevent bad breath and yellow teeth.

**< No, we don’t get gum disease, and yes, I do brush my teeth.>**

**< Dammit, Derek!>**

Stiles gripped the edge of the counter with both hands and spat into the sink.

“Stop reading my damn mind!” he shouted from inside the bathroom.

Stiles just wanted his mind to be his own again, his body to be his own, so he could have his stupid rambling internal monologues without being judged by stupid non-rambling werewolves.

Fuck, he didn’t have enough Adderall, did he? He’d only packed three days’ worth, and they were definitely going to be here for longer. He needed to call his dad. He needed to call Scott. He needed to call the _school_.

But forget his mind—he just wanted his own dick again! Maybe if he could touch his dick without triggering a panic attack, he wouldn’t be so damn scattered in the first place! He just wanted to jerk off, just once, nice and slow, like he’d missed out in the shower—

And as much as Stiles appreciated the thought, he was still surprised to find himself already hard. What the hell?

**< I can hear what you’re thinking.>**

“Are you _kidding_ me?”

His dick twitched again. Dammit.

Stiles shut his eyes as he rinsed his toothbrush, trying to think of something unsexy.

Unfortunately, all the images he came up with somehow led back to Derek. Thinking about his Dad? Arresting Derek, who stared out of the cruiser at Stiles with his sexy murder-glare. Thinking about his lacrosse teammates and their sweaty jockstraps? Derek in the locker room, wearing his soaked jeans. Thinking about Scott and Kira in flagrante? Derek was standing in the corner, glaring at them, and what the hell, brain? Why was Derek’s creepy looming suddenly sexy?

 **< It’s my fault,>** Derek projected, and even through the telepathic bond he was radiating misery.

Stiles swallowed the rest of his glass of water before opening up the bathroom door. Derek was flopped stomach down on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. The pillow where Stiles had been lying a few minutes ago.

“It’s not your fault, Derek, stop that.”

“Everything’s my fault.”

“Oh my god, was that self-pity I just heard? You sound like Scott. Seriously, cut it out.”

Derek shifted on the bed so he could glare at Stiles, and the friction sent a jolt through Stiles’ groin.

“Holy!” Stiles said, and stifled a moan. “Okay, this is awkward.”

“It’s the full moon,” Derek said, his lower lip pushed out in a pout.

He still managed to look angry, thanks to the eyebrows, but Stiles was hard-pressed not to leap on top of him. (Heh. Hard-pressed.)

For snuggling, obviously. He didn’t want to leap on top of him for any other, more nefarious purposes. Nope.

Stiles’ dick twitched again, and it was definitely not through the bond, this time.

Derek glared.

“Okay,” Stiles said, shifting to try and minimize the pressure of his jeans on his crotch, and failing spectacularly, “so it’s the full moon and you’re feeling super horny? Or what?”

Derek groaned, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was due to the unexpected friction, or because Stiles was a dork.

Derek grit his teeth, glaring at Stiles. “The pull of the wolf is strongest right now.”

“And?” Stiles asked.

“And I’m having a harder time controlling myself!” Derek snapped.

“Huh, so it really _is_ that time of the month.”

“Stiles!”

“What? I’m just saying.”

Derek dropped his face down onto the pillow, muffling his groan. This one was definitely frustration.

“Okay, just, I’ll get into bed, we won’t talk about it, eventually the mutual boners will go away, right?”

Derek twitched.

“Right?”

Stiles waited for Derek’s reply, getting more and more panicked as time went on, and the tips of Derek’s ears and the back of his neck turned red.

“Derek! Please tell me the boners are going to go away!”

Derek finally rolled over, into the middle of the bed, and looked at Stiles with a defeated expression. Which really, really, should not have been as much of a turn-on as it was.

“Okay, no, it’s fine, we’ll just both think about Finstock—”

Stiles’ dick twitched through the bond.

“ _Finstock_?”

Derek glared. “I had a crush on him in high school, so sue me!”

“You—”

“He was younger then!”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, “I’m going to need brain bleach for that image, which, yay, less boner, except, _why isn’t it going away_?”

“Because now I’m thinking about you _and_ Finstock!”

“Wait, and that’s a good image for you? Are you kidding me?”

“Shut _up_ , Stiles.”

Stiles stumbled away in a panic as Derek leapt off the bed and stalked towards him.

Holy crap, this was it. Derek was going to eat him. And there was only a fifty percent chance of it being in the sexy way.

Except, there was no mauling, or making out, or touching of any kind. Instead, Derek skirted completely around Stiles and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.


	16. Coming Untouched (Or: What did I tell you about being funny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexytimes ahoy!

“Derek!” Stiles turned and tried to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. “Derek, you asshole, you need to come out and talk about this!”

“Stiles, just—” Derek said, and he sounded so damn tired.

Stiles crouched down and placed his hand on the door, fingertips pressing into the wood. He closed his eyes, breathing in the air and feeling Derek’s skin prickling with goosebumps in the chill of the bathroom, the pads of his feet against the linoleum floor, the blood pulsing and thrumming through his veins.

“You can’t just run away from this,” Stiles said, and despite his best efforts, his voice cracked at the end.

“I know,” Derek said, and Stiles’ heart twisted in his chest.

“Do you think,” Stiles said, and then paused. He suspected an orgasm would do wonders for both of them, but he didn’t want to push Derek. He didn’t want to do what Kate had done, what Jennifer had done.

Derek shifted, and Stiles could feel him pressing his back more firmly against the closed door. “Do I think what?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Do you want to get off?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t want to have sex with you, Stiles,” Derek said, but he sounded more exhausted than scared.

“I know. If you could get off without—without physically touching me, would you want to?”

There was a beat of silence, the thrum of Stiles’ heartbeat loud in his eardrums.

“You don’t have to, okay? Just…if you did happen to, say, touch yourself, and get off, logically I would too, right? Through the bond?”

Derek hesitated. “Maybe.”

“So, uh, if I were to, you know, not touch myself at all, during the process, then you’d be in control the entire time.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

“Theoretically, if I were to not touch myself, while you were, uh, would you be…okay?”

Derek was silent, and even with the bond, Stiles had no idea what he was thinking.

“Forget it,” Stiles blurted. “It was a stupid idea. We should wait until the bond’s removed. That way you don’t feel like, weird, about me being connected to you, I mean, since, even if you were the only person touching in this scenario I’m still, you know, spying on you—”

“Yes,” Derek said.

Stiles stopped mid-ramble. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Derek repeated.

Stiles closed his eyes, forehead pressed up against the door, and breathed in slowly.

“Can you, uh, please clarify that?”

He waited, but Derek remained silent.

“Like,” Stiles said, “are you saying yes, Stiles, I agree that this is a terrible idea, now go away and leave me to my solitary brooding? Or…are you…”

There was a long pause, so long that Stiles thought that Derek was just choosing to ignore him, but finally Derek’s voice echoed in his head, soft and scared and sharp, all at once.

**< Yes, I would…be okay. With that.>**

Stiles let out a shaky breath. **< Are you…are you sure?>**

This time, Derek’s mental voice sounded amused. **< I’m sure.>**

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed, and pressed the side of his cheek into the wood. “What do you need me to do?”

There was a pause.

“Not here,” Derek said from behind the closed door. “Get on the bed.”

And damn, if hearing Derek boss him around in that tone of voice didn’t make it that much harder not to touch himself.

Stiles barely suppressed a whimper and practically threw himself onto the bed. He clenched his hands into fists, in an effort to keep himself from shoving them down his jeans.

He waited for his beating heart to slow, but then he could feel Derek unfastening his jeans. He bit his lip before remembering that Derek would feel it too. **< Shit, sorry about that.>**

**< I don’t mind…>**

Stiles sucked in a shuddering breath. **< Fuck, Derek—>**

**< No, just orgasm.>**

“Very funny, asshole,” Stiles managed, but his throat was hoarse.

He felt Derek finish unzipping, the tug of cloth as it was pushed down his thighs; Derek’s bare ass touching the cool, slightly tacky texture of the linoleum.

 **< I wish I could see you,>** Stiles thought, and Derek slammed his head back against the door.

He felt the ghost of fingers clamp around the base of his dick. **< You can’t _say_ things like that, >** Derek said, and then, after a beat, **< I’ll come early.>**

**< Oh my god.>**

**< No, just Derek. But thanks.>**

“What did I say about being funny!” Stiles shouted.

 **< _Quiet_ ,>** Derek commanded, and then softer, **< You don’t want Willow to wake up, do you?>**

**< Oh, god, I’m sorry.>**

Derek responded by moving his other hand, fingers dipping into the slit to gather up the pre-come and smear it around the head.

Stiles barely managed to suppress his whimper, and his dick twitched painfully in his pants. **< Can I take off my jeans?>**

**< Do it.>**

Stiles scrambled to comply, fingers fumbling against the button of his fly, hurriedly unfastening his jeans and raising his hips on the bed so he could slide them down his thighs. He stared at the damp spot soaking into his briefs, his heart rate climbing and his breaths growing shallow.

 **< Take off your shirt, too,>** Derek said, and an image flashed in Stiles’ mind, just briefly, of himself, standing in the shower, water coursing down his chest.

Stiles didn’t bother replying explicitly, just yanked his shirt up and off, cursing as it caught on his chin and ears. He flung it to the side, uncaring, before kicking his jeans completely off and hooking his fingers in the band of his underwear.

 **< Get on with it, Stiles,>** Derek said, as the grip on the base of his dick tightened.

Stiles hitched up his hips and pulled his briefs down and off. He watched as his cock bobbed in the cool air, a strand of pre-come stretching from his stomach.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, his whole body clenching.

He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. The urge to touch himself was overpowering, but he had made a promise, dammit, and—

 **< Try crossing them over your head,>** Derek said. ** <You can slide them under the pillows.>**

Stiles’ mouth fell open and he darted a glance over to the closed bathroom door, even as he followed Derek’s instructions. **< Have you _done_ this before? >**

The reply came a half-beat later. **< Maybe.>**

Stiles could picture it: Derek laid out on a bed just like Stiles was right now, his arms stretched above his head, trying desperately not to touch himself.

Despite the feeling of Derek’s hand still clenched around the base of his cock, a spurt of pre-come dribbled out at the thought.

**< Fuck, Derek, I’m ready, please just—>**

The hand gripping Derek’s cock disappeared, and the other started working up and down with long, rough strokes that caught against the foreskin on its way down.

It wasn’t as satisfying as when Stiles took himself in hand, certainly. The sensations flickered in and out like a television with poor reception, sometimes strong enough to feel that Derek was on the bed next to him, stroking Stiles’ cock, but mostly just whisper soft touches that were barely sufficient to tease.

To be honest, it was the most frustrating sexual experience he’d ever had, and that counted the time in seventh grade with Scott.

Stiles was still a teenager, though, and he hadn’t gotten off since Thursday, so it wasn’t going to take much. He could feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, shocks of pleasure shooting through him every time he remembered that it was Derek’s hand he was feeling, Derek’s dick that was being stroked, that Derek was jacking off with only a door to separate them.

 **< Stiles,>** Derek moaned, low and warm and wanting, the word echoing inside his head and filling up the space.

With his eyes shut, Stiles saw images flash against the back of his eyelids: Derek’s hand moving up and down on his cock, flushed and dark at the tip; Stiles in the shower, as Derek must have seen him when he’d walked in, caught in the act with water streaming down his chest and one hand fisting his dick; Stiles’ mouth, shiny with spit as Derek dipped his thumb inside.

That last image made the breath catch in Stiles’ throat. Was that how Derek saw him?

Damn, Stiles was _hot_.

 **< Shut up,>** Derek said, and conflicting waves of emotion pulsed along the bond. He was amused and irritated, fond and just a tad flustered.

Stiles giggled in between gasps. **< You _like_ me, >** Stiles sing-songed in his head, **< you think I’m _sexy_ , you want to _fuck_ me— >**

A new image formed—Derek laid out on his back and Stiles straddling him, smirking down at him as he gyrated his hips.

**< Oh my god, I’m not a girl, I’m pretty sure I can’t roll my hips that way when I’m riding you, and I’m almost positive I wouldn’t be that hard—>**

The image flickered and Derek’s grip faltered on his cock. **< Shut _up_ , Stiles!>**

**< Hey, it’s not my fault your fantasies are unrealistic—>**

Derek’s mental projection suddenly rolled Stiles over and onto his back—and Stiles would protest, because there was no way Derek could do that move still inside of Stiles without tearing something—but then fantasy Derek leaned over to cover Stiles’ mouth with his hand and Stiles felt heat shoot through his belly and groin.

 **< Is _this_ more realistic? >** Derek asked. **< Is this the only way I can get you to shut up? God, you’re insufferable.>**

 **< Oh my god.>** Stiles felt like his blood was on fire. **< Oh my _god_. >**

**< You...like that?>**

Stiles tried to send back his own image in response: Derek fucking into him roughly, one hand braced against the mattress and the other covering Stiles’ mouth as he screamed into Derek’s palm.

Derek’s mental projections turned into a stream of curses and the pace of his strokes increased, his hand jerking up and down, just this shade of too dry. Stiles had started thrusting his hips off the bed now, seeking out friction that didn’t exist, his breaths coming in short gasps. His nails scratched and scrabbled against the headboard even as he tried to keep them still. His mouth closed off against the whimpers that kept trying to emerge from his throat.

**< Derek, please, I’m so close—>**

He wasn’t sure if he was feeling Derek’s orgasm, or his own, but the pressure built up until he almost felt he was going to split in two, and he finally recognized the tingle that he’d come to anticipate just before coming.

Behind the bathroom door, he heard a low gasp, at the same time that Derek cried out his name in his head: one long, low syllable that dragged on forever.

**< _Stiles_ —>**

Pleasure sparked through Stiles’ body like lightning, and it felt like every muscle was clenching all at once.

When he finally felt coherent enough to open his eyes, everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus. When he looked down, he saw that his chest and stomach were spattered with thick white strands of come.

“Fuck,” he said, thumping his head back against the mattress. He didn’t remember feeling this full body ache after orgasm before.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and Derek staggered out, looking a little stunned. He was wearing boxer briefs, and Stiles tried his best to keep his eyes open, so he could appreciate the view. Derek’s chest was damp, happy trail clinging to his abdomen. Stiles wanted to be that hair.

“Too perfect,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t exist.”

Derek ignored him, kneeling next to the bed and bringing up the cloth in his hand to Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles squirmed away from the cold and damp. “Tickles,” he said.

“You won’t want to wake up with this still on you,” Derek said, and his eyes were soft.

“When did you get soft?” Stiles asked, reaching towards Derek’s face with one hand.

Derek just shook his head and finished wiping up the last traces of come from Stiles’ chest.

Stiles let his fingers brush against Derek’s stubble. “Scratchy.”

Derek smiled at that, and Stiles felt his eyes widen. Had he ever seen Derek smile before?

When Derek finally pulled away, Stiles whined. “Come back.”

“You’re so come-drunk,” Derek said, but he was still smiling, and his eyes were still looking at Stiles like he was something good.

“Sleep with me,” Stiles said, patting the sheets beside him.

“In a bit,” Derek said, and his hand brushed Stiles’ hair away from his forehead, before something dark and sad crept into Derek’s eyes, and he turned around.

 **< Go to sleep, Stiles,>** Derek told him, as he walked back into the bathroom.

So Stiles did.

***

Stiles flexed against the sheets, letting his knuckles graze against the headboard and stretching out his toes until they curled off the edge of the mattress.

It was nice and warm underneath the haphazard pile of sheets and blankets that had been lumped on top of him, and Stiles squirmed onto his stomach and slunk deeper into the makeshift nest.

He eased himself back into consciousness slowly. The room was filled with the warm glow of mid-morning, and Stiles could hear birdsong through the open window. When he cracked open one eye, he could see the expanse of yellow floral bedspread, only slightly wrinkled.

So, no Derek, then. Stiles supposed he hadn’t really expected to wake up next to him, but it might have been nice.

Stiles pressed his face into his pillow and groaned when he remembered the events of the previous night. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Now, not so much.

 **< Derek?>** Stiles tried, reaching out through the bond. **< Where are you?>**

He frowned into his pillow. Something felt off about the bond this morning. He couldn’t feel Derek.

 **< Hello?>** Stiles asked.

Stiles rolled over and sat up abruptly when he realized that not only was he not hearing any reply from Derek, but he also wasn’t sensing anything. No images, no thoughts, no physical sensations. He just felt that weird tug in the center of his chest that he felt whenever Derek wasn’t nearby. Which meant the bond was still present, at least partially.

So was their bond half-nullified, or what?

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

Kicking off the sheets, Stiles got out of bed and padded over to where he’d left his backpack, rooting around for a clean shirt and underwear. He was still naked, and the chill air of the room pricked at his bare skin.

It was odd to think that Derek couldn’t feel what he was feeling, for the first time in days.

Stiles shook off the thought and focused on getting dressed. His undershirt was cool against his skin, his jeans slightly wrinkled from where they’d been sitting in a crumpled pile on the floor overnight.

Without bothering with socks, Stiles cracked open the bedroom door and padded downstairs.

He saw Derek before he felt him, and it was odd to think that was odd. Stiles must have gotten more used to the bond than he’d thought.

As one final test, he thought, as loudly as he could, **< Turn around, or I’ll moan like I was doing last night.>**

Derek didn’t say anything, and his ears didn’t turn pink, so Stiles sighed noisily. To his surprise, Derek flinched, craning his neck back and setting his mug on the kitchen table.

“Morning,” Derek said.

“What happened to the bond?”

Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hand gripping the back arch tightly. “Apparently Willow finished brewing the potion early this morning.” He nodded over at his coffee cup before grimacing. “It’s the first part of the ritual.”

“Right,” Stiles said, still hovering at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Are you going to sit down?” Derek asked, but he wasn’t using his angry eyebrows, so there was that.

Stiles grabbed the seat caddy-corner from Derek, stretching out his legs under the table. “So.”

Derek frowned.

“How’s it going,” Stiles said.

“Fine.”

Ugh. Of all the morning-after regret scenarios, Stiles hadn’t pictured being forced to spend the morning with someone who’d rather be doing the walk of shame.

Derek drained the last of his mug, wincing. “That was terrible.”

“Yeah?”

Derek glanced over at Stiles. “I think it had rotten fish in it.”

“Gefilte fish?”

“It tasted fermented.”

“Gross.”

Derek attempted a smile, then. Stiles wasn’t sure what his face did in response, but Derek’s smile disappeared and he looked down at his hands, fingers still wrapped around the coffee mug.

“Is there any cereal?” Stiles asked.

Derek shrugged. “All I’ve had is the fish-drink.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Do I need to drink something too?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Stiles reached up behind his head to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “So, this is awesome.”

Derek bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Ugh, don’t apologize,” Stiles said. “You’re not the one who pushed.”

“You didn’t—” Derek closed his eyes, fingers convulsing where they were gripping onto his mug.

“I didn’t what?”

Derek pushed away from the table and carried his mug over to the sink.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” Stiles asked.

“Do you?”

“No, but we probably need to.”

Derek rinsed his mug in silence.

Stiles felt irrational anger rise up in his throat, pressure building up in his temples and pricking the back of his eyelids.

 **< Say something!>** he thought.

 **< Look at me!>** he thought.

But Derek couldn’t hear him.

“Fine,” he snapped, getting out of his chair. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then I’m just going back to bed.”

Derek’s head jerked around to meet Stiles’ gaze. He opened his mouth.

He closed it again.

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“Willow said—” Derek turned back to the sink. “She needed your help with something.”

Stiles felt another wave of anger rush through him. “Did she? Well, I guess I’m glad that someone wants to talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” Derek snapped, shoulders hunched defensively. “That last night was ‘the best night of my life’? That it was ‘special,’ and ‘magical,’ and ‘everything I’d ever dreamed of’?”

Derek paused for a long moment, his whole body still and his hands clenched around the rim of the sink.

“I dunno, Derek,” Stiles said, his muscles trembling as he forced the words out. “Maybe that you enjoyed it? Or that it wasn’t just a stupid mistake?”

“I can’t.” 

Derek’s voice wavered on the last sentence, barely audible. Stiles felt the breath rush out of him.

“You know,” Stiles said, refusing to let the pin pricks behind his eyelids turn into tears, “I had no delusions about my first time being special, but it might be nice if you’d _look_ at me when you tell me how horrible it was.”

Derek whirled around, staring at Stiles with bright blue irises and his fangs bared. “I’m looking now, are you happy?”

A loud cough sounded behind them. Willow was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest and raising a very judgmental eyebrow.

“Good morning, boys,” she said, her tone indicating it was anything but. “No shifting in the kitchen, please.”

“Sorry,” Derek said, sounding cowed, as his eyes dimmed and his fangs retreated.

Stiles breathed in, trying to slow the beating of his heart, but it still felt like a jackhammer beneath his ribcage.

Derek looked over at Stiles as though he wanted to say something.

Stiles turned away, towards Willow. “Derek said you needed my help?” Stiles asked. He managed a wide smile, hoping it came across as cheerful, rather than deranged.

Willow narrowed her eyes at him, silently assessing. “I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” She walked over to Derek and set a sheet of paper on the counter beside him. “Do you know where the grocery store is?”

Derek squinted down at the paper, grasping it between his thumb and index finger and bringing it closer to his face.

When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “You need all of this for the spell?”

“No,” Willow said, before turning back to Stiles. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Not yet,” Stiles said, eyes flicking back to Derek as he slunk out of the kitchen.

“I have oatmeal,” Willow said, rifling through the cupboards.

Stiles nodded absently, keeping his eye on the doorway until Derek’s form was long gone, and all that remained was the dull ache in his chest.


	17. Wise Old Woman with Unsolicited Advice (Or: What kind of spell uses red onion?)

As soon as Stiles had scraped up the last spoonful of oatmeal, Willow picked up his dishes and pointed one long finger towards the kitchen counter.

“Chop,” she commanded, turning to set his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher.

Stiles walked over to the counter, where he found a green plastic cutting board, steel butcher knife, and a large purple onion.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, walking over to the sink to wash his hands. “What kind of spell uses red onion?”

“Frittata,” Willow said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a trio of bell peppers in red, yellow and green. She walked over to the sink and started rinsing them while Stiles dried his hands on a pink and yellow embroidered hand towel.

“Sorry, what?” Stiles asked.

“For lunch,” she clarified. “If you boys are going to be staying here much longer, I’m going to have to start feeding you.” Willow smiled crookedly as Stiles hung the towel back over the oven door handle.

“Oh,” Stiles said.

Willow pulled a second cutting board from one of the lower cabinets, setting it on the countertop next to Stiles. She pulled a knife from the block and started chopping the yellow pepper into neat strips.

Stiles lifted the onion critically, trying to remember which end he was supposed to cut off first. “So, uh,” Stiles said, sawing at the end with the weird white cap and sprouty bits, “how long do you think we’ll need to stay here?”

“That depends,” Willow said, calmly and deftly slicing through the bell pepper with her knife.

When she didn’t say anything else, Stiles sighed in frustration and lifted the onion to peel off the outer layer. “Depends on what?”

“On whether you actually want to remove the bond.”

The onion dropped from Stiles’ fingers, and he jerked backwards as it fell onto the floor with a thunk. “Um, yes? Yes, I very much do.”

Willow raised an eyebrow, but kept chopping silently.

“Are you, like, delaying casting the removal spell?” Stiles asked. “Because you think I don’t want to break it?”

Willow gave him a considering look. “It has nothing to do with what I _think_ , Stiles.”

Stiles knelt down to pick up the onion. He was definitely not hiding from the scary emissary lady.

Willow sighed from above him before setting her knife down with a solid thunk.

“There are safe-guards built into these kind of bonds,” she said, and Stiles looked up as she skirted around him. She continued talking as she carried her cutting board over to the stove. “If an enemy of the pack were to void an established bond, it could be disastrous.”

Willow scooped the bell pepper strips into a waiting saucepan before continuing. “As such, the bonding ritual was designed to be nearly impossible to remove permanently, unless both parties will it.”

Stiles straightened, eyes fixed on the somewhat flattened side of the onion, a darker purple where he’d dropped it. He set the bruised onion back on the cutting board. When he looked up, Willow was staring back at him, her mouth curved into a smile and her eyes sad.

“How do you know Derek’s not the one trying to keep the bond intact?” Stiles asked, stubbornly refusing to look at Willow while he cut away the bruised section of his onion.

Stiles knew full well it wasn’t Derek who was keeping them here. Why would Derek want to be connected to a skinny, stupid, defenseless teenage pain in his ass? And not even the good kind of pain in his ass, either.

Stiles really needed not to think about being a literal pain in Derek’s ass.

“I’ve already discussed the matter with Derek,” she said, and Stiles’ head snapped up. Willow didn’t meet his gaze, just started chopping the next bell pepper, her face expressionless. Stiles briefly wondered if she ever played poker, because damn.

Stiles hesitated before speaking. “Derek wants to remove the bond, right?”

Willow paused, before saying, “You would need to ask Derek about that.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that. We can have a heart-to-heart.”

Willow was silent for a moment. “What I’m more concerned about right now, Stiles, is you.”

“What about me?” Stiles asked, frowning down at the knife in his hands as he sliced through the body of the onion. His eyes were starting to sting.

“Do you have any reasons for wanting to keep the bond?”

Stiles’ hand jerked forward as he slammed through the onion at a bad angle, and the blade ended up wedging itself into the cutting board. “No,” Stiles said, the hand holding the knife clenched tight around the handle.

“Really?”

Stiles turned to stare at Willow. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything.”

“Bullshit.”

Willow raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look up from her methodical slicing.

“Fine, whatever,” Stiles said. “You can just carry on with your lack of implication.” He looked back down at the partially diced onion on his cutting board, and blinked his eyes shut as they started watering from a sudden wash of pain. “I hate cutting onions.”

“I do too,” Willow said. “But I love eating them. Sometimes you have to go through a little pain for the things you love.”

“Oh, come on!” Stiles said, wiping at his eyes with curled fists.

“Don’t touch your eyes until you’ve washed your hands,” she scolded.

“What’s with emissaries and stupid metaphors? That wasn’t even subtle!”

Willow snorted. “Of course it wasn’t. I’m trying to make a point, and the two of you are too stupid for a more elegant explanation.”

Stiles glared at her through the tears. “Am I just supposed to want the bond removed? Because I do. It sure as hell isn’t working out so far.”

Willow sighed and set down her knife, leaning against the counter with one hip and frowning over at Stiles. “You can’t have reservations about this, Stiles.”

“Well, I’m so sorry that I actually _care_ about another human being enough to make sure he’s not _dead_! I’m sorry that Deaton has a habit of cast first, answer questions later! I’m sorry that I want Derek to stop running away from me every time the wind blows!”

Willow raised an eyebrow at Stiles’ outburst, but said nothing.

Stiles snapped his mouth shut with a click.

“I see,” Willow said, and turned to pick her knife back up from the cutting board.

“Fuck,” Stiles said. “No, I mean. I don’t want this bond, I _don’t_.”

Willow returned to slicing bell pepper, and Stiles leaned over his own cutting board. He was hit by a blinding wave of pain as soon as he breathed in.

He stumbled out of the kitchen, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyelids until the stinging subsided, his breaths coming out shaky and uneven. He felt strange, stripped bare. It was as though, without Derek’s senses echoing throughout his body, a part of him was missing. He just felt the tug of pain in his chest, a directionless, dull ache that faded into the background when he was engaged in other things, but never completely went away.

He sat down on the stairs leading up to the guest bedroom where he and Derek had been staying. Maybe Willow was right. Maybe Stiles was the one holding them back, stupidly wanting a connection to Derek. Some special tie to him that no one else had. He just needed to let go. To let Derek go.

He needed to let Derek go.

Stiles wiped his damp cheeks with his sleeve and rose to his feet.

When he came back into the kitchen, Willow was standing in front of the stove, stirring the contents of her saucepan with a wooden spoon.

The cutting board and knife Stiles had been using were in the sink, and he saw the diced onions in the pan, mixed with the bright strips of yellow, red, and green.

“So what’s next?” he asked, ignoring the way his voice cracked.

Willow waved her spoon towards the refrigerator. “Get the eggs and crack them into a separate bowl.” She turned towards him and smiled. “Makes it easier to pick out the shell.”

“Okay, cool,” Stiles said, opening the refrigerator door and pulling out the carton of cage free eggs.

Willow didn’t say anything else, and Stiles moved back to the counter. “So is there something I need to do?” he asked.

“Grab a bowl from the cupboard.”

“No, I mean.” Stiles shut his eyes, bracing himself against the counter for a moment and drawing in a long breath. “To break the bond.”

Willow cleared her throat beside him, and when he turned to look, she was uncapping the olive oil to add another splash to the pan. “You have to want what’s best for Derek.”

Stiles swallowed. “Yeah.”

The hiss of frying onions filled the kitchen, Willow’s soft scrapings against the bottom of the pan, the occasional crackle of hot oil. The smell drifted over to Stiles and made his eyes sting with sense memory.

“Can you do that, Stiles?” Willow asked, setting the olive oil back on the counter and picking her spoon back up.

“Yeah, I’m…I can do that.”

“Good,” she said. “Bowls are in the cupboard by your head. Whisk is in the second drawer on your left.”

For once, Stiles didn’t have anything to say in response. He wondered if Derek would be impressed.

***

Stiles was washing lettuce for salad when Derek finally came back with the groceries. Stiles could hear the rustle and clink of plastic bags full of glass jars being set on the kitchen counter.

“Did you find everything on the list?” Willow asked.

Derek was silent for a moment. “Not everything,” he said, after a beat. “They were out of pre-chopped onions.”

Stiles resisted the urge to turn around and look.

Willow made a humming noise before turning away from the stove.

“The lime curd was on sale,” Derek added, “so I bought two.”

“Thank you, dear,” Willow said.

Stiles suddenly realized that he had been rinsing the latest leaf of romaine for about five minutes now. He shook the water off and reached to pull off another leaf.

He had felt strange before, not being able to hear Derek’s thoughts, or feel what Derek felt, but being in the same room with him, and cut off, was somehow so much worse.

Footsteps sounded behind him, plastic crinkling and paper rustling as Willow and Derek started putting things away.

Stiles continued tearing off new lettuce leaves to wash. He would just take this one minute at a time. He and Derek just had to wait until Willow was ready to break the bond, and then they would go back home in the most excruciating fourteen hour car ride known to man, and then Stiles would go back to school and Derek would go off to his loft, and Stiles would never talk to Derek ever again.

“Before I forget,” Willow said, “I’d just like to perform the last part of the bond separation spell.”

Stiles shook his lettuce leaf free of moisture before tossing it in with the rest of the clean leaves.

Willow looked between Stiles and Derek. “Do you remember what I told you both?”

Derek nodded.

Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets, not quite brave enough to look either of them in the eye. “Uh, yeah,” he said.

“Good,” she said, beckoning them towards the corridor.

They both followed her through to the library, a dark, cozy room lined with bookshelves, with two stuffed armchairs perched in the center on top of a circular rug. Stiles padded over to stand in front of the chairs, and let his toes sink into the material.

“You’ll need to hold hands for this,” Willow said, and Stiles knew Derek could hear his heart skip a beat.

He reached out for Derek anyway. “Ready?” he asked, staring at his feet, and warm fingers closed around his and squeezed.

 _Let him go_ , Stiles thought, closing his eyes as he breathed in and out. _He has the right to run._

Willow started chanting, some language with a lot of guttural consonants and rolled r’s, all slurring together. He could feel Derek tensing up next to him, and he rubbed his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand.

_He doesn’t need to be tied to you. Let him go._

Derek squeezed tighter.

“Let him go,” Stiles whispered, and Derek’s grip faltered momentarily, then got even tighter.

Stiles blinked his eyes open when he felt fingers close around his wrist. Willow was standing between them, still reciting the weird chant. Her hands had closed around both of their wrists, and she squeezed gently until Derek’s grip on Stiles loosened, then pulled them apart.

She let go of their arms and stepped back.

Derek stared back at Stiles, his hands clenched into fists. His gaze flickered back and forth across Stiles’ face.

Willow cleared her throat.

Stiles watched Derek as he turned and walked out of the room.

“So,” he asked, after a beat, “is that it?”

“That’s it,” Willow said. “Just remember to focus on your reasons for maintaining separation, or the bond may heal.”

“Great,” Stiles said, forcing false cheer into his voice.

Willow smiled at him, her eyes sad, and Stiles turned his head away.

“Come on,” Willow said, walking past him back to the kitchen, “we’ve got lunch to finish.”

***

After the groceries were put away, Derek went upstairs, and Stiles went back to preparing the salad, carefully slicing up mushrooms a handful at a time. He had finished about half of the package when he heard steps behind him.

“Hey,” Derek said, his voice coming from just over Stiles’ left shoulder. He set down a white paper bag on the counter and cleared his throat, and despite his better judgment, Stiles turned to look.

Derek looked back, his eyes wide. His irises were a pale swirling green and blue, and Stiles couldn’t stop staring.

Stiles tried to turn back to the task at hand, he really did, but for some reason, the muscles in his neck weren’t cooperating. “What’s up?” he asked instead.

Derek drew his gaze away from Stiles. “I got donuts,” Derek said.

“Donuts?” Stiles repeated, still feeling a little dazed.

“Yeah.” Derek licked his lips, and Stiles watched the movement, mesmerized as Derek’s pink tongue darted out, leaving his lips wet and shiny. “To make up for the other day. Since I ate the one you wanted.”

He backed up a step, hovering. Stiles set down his knife on the countertop, and reached for the proffered bag.

When Stiles peeked inside, he saw a small pile of four or five donuts, all slightly different. On top was a plain white frosted donut. Stiles stood there for a moment, frozen, staring down at a grocery store bag of stale donuts.

“There are Oreos, too, if you want,” Derek said, and Stiles turned to stare. The tips of his ears were pink and he was looking at anything but Stiles.

“You—” Stiles swallowed. Fuck.

Stiles could remember how smug Derek had looked when he had scarfed down that Oreo donut, even in wolf form. How he licked his muzzle clean afterwards and sat back on his haunches, just waiting for Stiles’ reaction.

Derek was looking at him now, shoulders hunched. His head was tilted forward slightly, so that he was looking at Stiles from underneath his absurdly long eyelashes, and those stupid, bushy eyebrows.

Stiles wanted to kiss Derek so badly he could taste it.

“Stiles?”

Stiles shut his eyes and breathed in through his nose. “No.”

“No?” Derek’s voice sounded hesitant, and Stiles could just picture the way his eyebrows would be drawn together, his mouth twisted in a little moue of confusion.

This wasn’t fair. Derek couldn’t do something nice like this, and then disappear from his life, leaving Stiles with this gaping, Derek-shaped hole and nothing to fill it.

“I can’t—” Stiles took a deep breath, trying to stave off the panic he could feel bubbling up through his chest. “I don’t want your donuts, Derek.”

Derek was silent for long enough that Stiles opened his eyes. His expression was shuttered, but Stiles could see through to the vulnerability underneath.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, the words coming out small, shaky.

“Fuck,” Stiles replied, and ran past Derek and out of the kitchen.

***

Stiles sat on the front steps, back pressed up against the front door, and stared down at the dusty ground.

He scuffed his toe in the dirt and forced himself to finally think about it: the massively obvious fact that he’d been desperately trying to avoid for the past month, maybe longer.

Stiles was in love with Derek Hale.

Stiles was _in love_ with Derek Hale.

 _Stiles_ was in love with _Derek Hale_.

Really, no matter how many times he said it, or how many different ways he phrased it, it didn’t become any less terrifying.

Or any less true.

Stiles was in the middle of attempting not to have a panic attack about this fact, when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Looking up, he saw a police cruiser turning onto the ridiculously long driveway leading up to Willow’s front door.

A very familiar police cruiser.

“Shit,” he swore, and scrambled to his feet, eyes focused on the figure behind the steering wheel.

The car ground to a stop, and the front door and passenger door opened simultaneously. The sound of boots thudding against the dirt sliced through the mid-afternoon heat.

“Hi, Dad,” Stiles croaked.


	18. Angry Parental Figures (Or: Scott is a terrible liar)

Stiles’ dad and Scott both stepped out onto the driveway, with furious and sheepish expressions on their respective faces.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Dad said, his tone dangerously even, and Stiles swallowed.

“Um,” he said, intelligently.

Scott turned his puppy eyes on Stiles. “We were worried something had happened to you,” he said.

“Well, as you can see, I’m totally fine!” Stiles said, waving his arms for emphasis. “Everything’s cool, we just finished removing the bond a few minutes ago. So we were gonna eat lunch real quick before heading back home, no supervision necessary—”

“Stiles,” his dad said, striding up to him and resting a hand heavily on his shoulder. “You’re not going to talk your way out of this one. Inside,” he said, jerking his head towards the front door and looking back at Scott to make sure he would follow.

“I—” Stiles started, but thought better of it when his father turned his head back around to shoot him a dark look. “Right. Inside. We can do that.”

Stiles trailed behind his father as he walked into the front entrance and carefully pulled off his shoes. He was still in his uniform, which Stiles would find time later to be embarrassed about. For now, though, he was trying not to lapse into a panic attack.

He hadn’t missed the way his father’s eyes had darted down to his neck, where the hickey from two days prior had faded to an ugly chartreuse color.

“Hey,” Scott said, coming up from behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder, in a much friendlier echo of Stiles’ dad. “You doing okay?”

“Peachy,” Stiles said, his voice cracking. “Yep. My life is just skittles and rainbows and sunshine.”

“Derek’s panicking,” Scott said, after a beat.

“Yeah?”

“He’s definitely panicking. I can hear him freaking out about your dad.” His eyes flickered down to Stiles’ neck. “Holy shit. Yeah, man, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure your dad noticed the hickey. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

“Well, that’s just _fabulous_ ,” Stiles said.

“Nah, it’s just a hickey.” Scott nudged him in the side with his elbow. “Dude, why didn’t you pick up your phone?”

Stiles frowned and jostled him back. “I didn’t hear it ring. It’s been on me the whole time. At least, I thought it was.” He reached down to pat at his jeans and realized that both pockets were conspicuously empty. “I don’t know how I forgot. It’s supposed to be in my pocket.”

“Right. Because you _never_ forget things,” Scott said, smiling.

“Whatever,” Stiles said, waving his hand in dismissal. “It’s probably upstairs, I’ll just go run and grab it—”

Scott tilted his head to the side, and his eyes went soft and unfocused. “Derek says you left it in the car.”

Stiles dropped his hands and turned to stare at Scott. “What?”

Scott, the asshole, just smirked at him and started walking towards the kitchen.

“What the hell, Scott?” Stiles asked, before dropping his voice to a whisper. “Just because you two have your stupid wolf hearing powers doesn’t mean you should use them. Rude, much?”

Scott looked back and rolled his eyes. “Come on, don’t act as though this is weird. You know Derek can hear our conversation. Besides, since when do you care about him overhearing something?”

 _Since I figured out I’m in love with him_ , Stiles thought, and something must have shown on his face, because Scott’s smile vanished.

“I _don’t_ care,” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows at Scott. He pursed his lips and shook his head in an attempt to telepathically communicate with Scott. Something along the lines of _Say anything to Derek, and I’ll kill you._

Scott mouthed _What?_ before pulling a face and doing a double take.

“Why would I care?” Stiles asked, the picture of nonchalance.

Scott frowned back at him. “Totally,” he said.

Stiles cursed the fact that his best friend was such a terrible liar, and reached out to smack his shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Boys,” Willow called out from inside the kitchen, “lunch is getting cold.”

“Sorry!” Stiles said, and sending one last frustrated glance Scott’s way, he stepped through the doorway into the kitchen.

“Behave,” Stiles’ father said. “I don’t think I need to remind you just how much trouble you’re in.” He turned to smile over at Willow, who was standing next to the stovetop, prodding at the contents of the saucepan with a wooden spoon.

“I’m John Stilinski,” Stiles’ dad said, sticking out a hand to shake. “Alan’s told me about you; it’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Willow replied, a smile on her face.

“I’m sorry about my son. Thank you for taking care of him these past few days.”

“Your son is quite a handful.” She turned and raised her eyebrows at Stiles, mouth tweaked into an amused smile. “Can’t say as I mind, though.”

“I really can’t thank you enough for helping us with this,” Stiles’ dad said.

Derek was standing at the sink, apparently having taken over Stiles’ previous job of rinsing lettuce.

(Which, really, how much lettuce did they need? Had Willow been expecting additional guests? Shit; maybe she had been.)

He was facing away from Stiles, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious through the thin material of his shirt.

Stiles tried not to stare too much at the flex of Derek’s back muscles underneath his henley.

Scott walked over to the table and inspected the clear jug of orange juice standing in the center. “Is this the kind without pulp?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Willow said, turning to smile at him and tapping her spoon against the side of the pan.

“Awesome!” Scott said. “That’s my favorite!”

“This here is Scott McCall,” Stiles’ dad said, clapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Works for Alan in the vet’s office.”

“Ah, Scott,” Willow said, smiling. “I’ve heard you have a way with animals. Are you thinking of going to vet school?”

“Yes ma’am,” Scott said. “I’ve been looking at AVMA accredited programs close to Beacon Hills, so I can stay with my mom and save on housing.”

Stiles stared at the scene before him. It all seemed so domestic. Seriously, this felt like something out of the Twilight Zone, and everyone else in the room seemed to be taking it in stride.

“Need help with anything?” Dad asked Willow.

“If you could set the table,” she said, “that would be a great help.” She waved her spoon towards the cabinets to the left of the refrigerator. “Plates are in the far cupboard, silverware is in the drawer below.”

Derek walked over to the table and set the romaine leaves in the center of the table, next to the juice. He wouldn’t look Stiles directly in the eye.

“Um,” Stiles said, and proceeded towards the cupboard he knew held glass tumblers. “So are we just…having lunch, then?”

Everyone turned to stare at Stiles, with varying degrees of bitch-face. Scott looked more puzzled than anything, Willow covered her initial reaction in a layer of impassive politeness, and Stiles was used to his dad shooting him dirty looks. Derek was probably the winner of the bitchiest face competition, but he was grimacing down at the table, rather than looking at Stiles directly.

“The frittata is just about done,” Willow said, and picked up the saucepan with a pot-holder before moving over to the table.

“Cool,” Stiles said, setting down his armful of tumblers next to the plates his dad had set out. “Frittata,” he echoed.

Scott immediately sat and poured himself a glass of orange juice, and the others started sitting soon after, Stiles sandwiched between Scott and his dad, across the table from Derek and Willow.

Derek still wouldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes, though.

***

“So tell me about this bonding ritual,” Stiles’ dad said, after swallowing a tiny bite of salad followed by a large mouthful of frittata.

Stiles glanced at Derek, who jerked his head away as though he’d been caught staring.

Willow dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin before speaking. “It’s fairly common amongst alpha werewolves and their second-in-command.” The corners of her mouth tweaked up into a smile. “Due to certain aspects of the spell, it’s generally reserved for lovers and siblings.”

“Lovers _and_ siblings?” Stiles blurted. “Wouldn’t that get awkward, with the whole…” He waved his hand in a circle, trying to convey his point without abandoning all subtlety and just pointing at his crotch.

Thankfully, Scott was there to save him from himself. “Yeah,” he said, “what about the mind-meld powers? Wouldn’t you want to keep certain things secret?”

Derek cleared his throat. “Privacy is different in packs,” he said, his voice rough. Stiles blinked in surprise. He hadn’t heard him say anything since his dad and Scott had arrived. “Everyone can hear and smell everything going on in the house, and family members all live in the same household, so it’s not like you can have many secrets, anyway.”

“Sibling bonds also tend to be less strong on the physical side,” Willow explained, “and more focused on the telepathic connection.”

Derek grunted and stabbed another piece of lettuce with his fork.

Stiles’ father frowned. “Can you explain this physical connection, again?”

“It’s mostly used for sex,” Willow said, calmly taking a sip of orange juice.

Stiles choked on his salad. Scott pounded him on the back a few times, before Stiles smacked him in the head hard enough for him to get the message.

“It has some other fringe benefits, such as pain control, and health monitoring,” Willow added, blithely ignoring that Derek’s whole face had flushed the approximate hue of a cherry tomato, or that Dad was looking at her with his jaw hanging open, fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Stiles groaned and buried his face in his hands. He was still loosely holding his fork, vaguely aware of a piece of lettuce flopping onto his hair.

“Alan probably used it because of its lesser benefits,” Willow said, “namely, the health monitoring and proximity sensing abilities.”

“That’s so cool,” Scott said. “Do all emissaries know this stuff?”

Willow snorted. “Well, Alan had better know it.”

Stiles peeked between his fingers. Willow was smiling.

“I assume you’re the one who taught him?” Dad said, his smile twisting up at the corners and his eyes wrinkling in amusement.

“Sadly, yes,” Willow said. “His father wasn’t much help in the supernatural department, but his job paid the bills, so.”

Stiles uncovered his face and frowned over at Willow. There was something weird about that statement. “His father?”

“Henry Deaton,” Willow announced proudly, before her eyes trailed off and focused somewhere in the middle distance, and her smile turned sad. “I always joked that his job would give him a heart attack.”

“What did he do? For his job, I mean.”

Willow’s eyes snapped back to Stiles. “He worked in finance.”

“Um,” Stiles said. “That’s cool?”

Stiles’ dad sighed, throwing Stiles a rueful look. “I apologize for Stiles, Mrs. Deaton. Apparently his father never taught him manners.”

“ _Deaton_?” Stiles squeaked, and he could see Derek roll his eyes.

Scott turned and beamed at Willow. “You’re Dr. Deaton’s mom, right? Do you have any embarrassing stories about him growing up?”

Willow laughed, low and throaty. “Well, I can tell you that he refused to share his toys with his sister.”

“Oh, man,” Scott said, his smile widening.

Stiles felt a headache coming on. He pushed his plate away. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit,” he said, refusing to look at Derek or his dad as he rose to his feet.

“Hey, is everything cool?” Scott asked, turning towards him with his big brown puppy eyes.

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired, so. I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.” He nodded at Willow. “Thanks for lunch.”

He chanced one last look back before disappearing through the doorway, but Derek’s gaze was fixed firmly on his plate.

***

Stiles was staring up at the ceiling, hating pretty much everything, including himself, when he heard a knock on the door.

“Hey, kid,” his dad said, voice slightly muffled, “can I come in?”

Stiles sighed before sitting up. His father was probably just going to stand there until Stiles gave in. Stiles came by his stubborn streak honestly.

“Yeah,” he said.

The door creaked open, and his dad stuck his head inside. “You okay?”

Stiles shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Stiles’ dad stepped into the room, coming to sit on the bed next to Stiles. “I see that you have a bruise.” He lifted his eyebrows at Stiles meaningfully.

“Dad,” Stiles said, but it came out more as a whine than a warning.

His dad sighed. “Stiles. You understand that… _if_ I were to suspect Derek of pursuing sexual relations with a minor, I’d have to take action. As in, I’d be legally required to do so. That kind of thing gets you on the registry for sex offenders,” he said, not looking directly at Stiles. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you that at his age, statutory rape is considered a felony.”

“He didn’t touch me, dad,” Stiles said. He felt exhausted. “I’d swear on oath.”

“If he pressured you—” his dad started to say.

“Dad, just stop.” Stiles looked down on his hands, clenched in the comforter. “If anyone were going to press charges, it would be Derek.”

He heard his dad hum thoughtfully, before a hand came up to rest on his shoulder.

“I was going to have you drive back with me in the cruiser,” Dad said, “but maybe you’d prefer driving down with Scott.”

Stiles turned to look at his dad. “What?”

“I spoke to Derek, and he said Scott could drive his car. As long as you both stay in touch by phone, I don’t have a problem with it.”

“So, you—”

“Derek and I are going to drive back in the cruiser. I want you to leave now, so that you don’t miss any more classes, but I need to take a nap before I get back on the road.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. His dad seemed to be super reasonable right now, not nearly as pissed as Stiles had expected, and it was throwing him off.

“We’ll discuss your punishment when I get back,” Dad added, and there it was.

Stiles winced despite himself. “Yeah, okay.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “No arguments?”

Stiles bit his lip, and stared down at his hands.

“Maybe you really are growing up, kid,” his dad said, before standing up and running a hand through Stiles’ hair. When he reached the door, he paused and turned back to look at Stiles. “Get your stuff. I want you out of here in the next thirty minutes.”

Stiles flopped back on the bed as soon as his dad closed the door.

***

Scott came in a few minutes later, and collapsed on the bed next to Stiles. “You ready yet?”

“No,” Stiles said.

“If we leave now, we can stop in Walla Walla for milkshakes,” Scott said. “I looked up reviews on trip advisor on the way up.”

Stiles turned to look at his best friend. He was smiling at Stiles, his face open and warm. The ache in Stiles’ chest lessened, just enough that he could breathe freely again.

“Okay,” Stiles said.

Scott beamed and moved to get off the bed. “Want me to help pack your stuff?”

“No way, dude,” Stiles scoffed, getting to his feet. “I don’t want you touching my dirty underwear.”

“Well, that’s good, ‘cause neither do I,” Scott said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning against the armchair. “What’s with all the dolls in here, anyway?”

“I’m pretty sure this is the set up for a horror movie,” Stiles said, and when he looked back at Scott, he felt himself grinning.

***

Because Scott was a true bro, he waited until Stiles had ordered his huckleberry milkshake before bringing up the subject Stiles had been dreading since they left Spokane.

“So,” Scott said. “What’s up with you and Derek?”

Stiles considered reopening his menu, just so he’d have something to look at. “Nothing’s up with us.”

Scott raised a rather judgmental eyebrow.

Stiles fidgeted in his seat. “No, really, when I say nothing, I mean…nothing.”

“I thought for sure you were gonna make a move,” Scott said, frowning across the booth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott grinned his stupid lopsided smile that made him look even more like a puppy. “I’m guessing Derek wasn’t ever gonna make the first move, so…”

Stiles opened his menu, staring down at the picture of a cheeseburger and wishing he were somewhere else.

Scott, of course, just stayed silent.

“Well,” Stiles said, when he could no longer stand the awkwardness, “any moves I may or may not have made were not well received. So.”

“Really?” Scott asked, and he sounded so damn _sad_ that Stiles ended up looking up from the menu. “I thought for sure you two would finally get your act together.”

“Scott,” Stiles snapped. Scott covered up his look of hurt, but not before Stiles had seen it and had the opportunity to feel like even more of a jerk. “There is no me and Derek, and there’s not going to be. Can we not rub my face into this fact, please?”

Scott blinked over at him, concerned, before his expression turned carefully neutral. “So Kira and I were thinking of starting a board game night.”

Stiles really, truly loved Scott in that moment.

“Oh, no,” Stiles said, “not this again.” He smiled over the table at Scott. “I don’t know where she gets her definition of board games from, but I know you, and I am _not_ getting roped into three-way Go Fish. It’s not my kind of three-way, if you know what I mean.”

Scott kicked him under the table.


	19. Grounded (Or: You’re taking joy in my pain)

Stiles stumbled down to the kitchen two days after his less-than-epic return to Beacon Hills, only to find his dad sitting at the table, waiting for him.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, and Stiles winced. If he was using that nickname, either Stiles had done something to make his dad think of him fondly, or his dad was going to say something Stiles didn’t want to hear, and was trying to soften the blow.

Suffice it to say that Stiles hadn’t done anything nice for his dad lately.

“Hey, Dad,” he finally said, walking over to the fridge and pawing around for the cranberry juice.

“Do you want to discuss your punishment now, or when you get home from school?”

There it was.

“Ugh.” Stiles let his arms flop to his sides and his head fall forward. “Can we save it for later?”

He heard his dad make a humming sound, before the paper in his hands rustled. “That’s not the only thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Stiles turned slowly. His dad was looking way too happy, and it was making Stiles twitchy. “What else?” he asked, not able to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

“Oh, nothing important,” his dad said, a smug smile curving up the edges of his mouth. “Just Derek Hale.”

Stiles stared in horror at his father’s expression. “You’re taking joy in my pain,” he accused.

“Like father, like son?” his dad suggested.

Stiles glared before sighing and shutting the fridge door. Well, at least Stiles came by his vindictive side honestly.

He slid into the seat across from his dad. “Okay, spill.”

“What’s to spill?” his dad asked, setting down the paper on the table and leaning back in his chair.

“You’re a horrible person,” Stiles accused, but he felt his face flaming up, much to his horror.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you so flustered, kid,” Dad said. “What happened to the witty retorts I’ve come to know and tolerate?”

“You’re the one who got to interrogate him for fifteen hours on the drive back from Washington, okay? I haven’t—I’m probably not gonna see him again anyway.”

Dad’s eyes softened. “So this isn’t like that Martin girl, then.”

Stiles frowned over at his dad, eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His dad hummed and turned to the next page. His eyes were still glued to the paper when he said, “It’s not just a crush.”

Stiles’ first reaction was to emphatically deny everything, along with some illustrative hand gestures, but he was pretty sure he’d just end up incriminating himself. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest even as he could feel his face grow hot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.”

“No?” Dad asked, looking up with a smirk on his face. Jerk.

“Nope.”

“Then you _don’t_ want to date him?”

Date him?

Stiles wanted to fall asleep next to Derek and wake up beside him in the morning. He wanted to buy donuts covered in crushed Oreos, and make fun of Derek for eating them in two bites. He wanted to run around in the woods and eat roast beef sandwiches and get shoved in the mud. He wanted to scratch Derek behind the ears while he was in his wolf form, and he wanted to scratch him behind the ears when he was human, just to see the stupid face he would make. Stiles wanted to crack dumb jokes and see Derek’s stupid half smirk, or his eye roll when he was trying not to laugh. He wanted to go out to the diner and get curly fries and milkshakes, and kick Derek under the table and throw straw wrappers at his stupid face.

Hell yeah, Stiles wanted to date him.

“Not really,” Stiles managed, but even to his own ears it sounded strangled.

“He’s a good kid,” his dad just said, before clearing his throat and getting to his feet.

“I don’t—” Stiles said, but there was something in his throat, because the words split in two on their way up, and the sound didn’t make it all the way out of his mouth.

His dad sighed. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said, reaching down to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder. “I just think you could do worse. That’s all.”

Stiles attempted to smile. He couldn’t imagine it was very convincing, but it at least seemed to placate his dad enough to leave Stiles at the table, alone with his thoughts.

***

“So how badly did your dad ground you?” Scott asked the next day at lunch.

“I’m under house arrest,” Stiles said, trying not to look as despondent as he felt. “No visitors except on weekends, I have to come home immediately after lacrosse practice, and I have to have my cell on and charged at all times so that my dad can call me at any given moment. I just know he’s going to call while my pants are down. It’s going to be traumatizing for both of us.”

Scott mused over his mashed potatoes. “Could have been worse.”

Stiles frowned at his best friend. “Worse? Worse how? Scott, I can’t even stop on my way home for curly fries, that’s how draconian this is.”

“You could have lost the jeep,” Scott said.

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the one thing my dad could have done that would also have inconvenienced him. Although, you’re right, getting rides to school in the cruiser would have been even more humiliating.”

“Bummer, man,” Scott said, his face creasing in sympathy.

“Yeah, whatever,” Stiles said, shaking his fork at Scott. “I see right through your best bro act. This just gives you an excuse to hang out with Kira after school, instead of studying with me.”

“I can still come over on Sunday, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, sighing and shoveling another forkful of potatoes in his mouth. “Oh, but, get this, while you’re over I have to keep my bedroom door open. Does he think we’re going to be smoking weed in there or something?”

“Dude,” Scott said, his eyes narrowing. “He said you had to keep your door open when I was over?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said, shrugging. “I think the phrase he used was ‘when guests are over,’ but, who else is actually going to willingly visit me other than you?”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Derek?”

Stiles nearly choked on his mashed potatoes. “What?”

“Open door policy is classic parental cockblock.”

“Derek’s not coming to my house, oh my god.” Stiles set down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest to emphasize how serious he was. “There’s nothing to cockblock.”

“Sure there’s not,” Scott said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh my god. You’re a horrible person, you know that?” Stiles asked, hunching his shoulders in frustration. “I’m trying to get over Derek, not…plan sexcapades!”

“If you say so.”

“I do!”

“Okay,” Scott said, his lips twitching at the corners.

“Stop that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are,” Stiles said, glaring over at his friend. “I know that look.”

Scott just smirked down at his potatoes.

“Have I mentioned you’re the worst?” Stiles asked, stabbing angrily at his meatloaf.

“You love me,” Scott countered.

***

A week and a half later, Stiles was lying stomach down on his bed, thumbing through his history textbook, when the doorbell rang.

Stiles frowned down at the paragraph on the various horrifying effects of radiation poisoning and pushed himself to his feet.

The doorbell rang a second time as he was clattering down the stairs. “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” he mumbled, before throwing the front door open.

Derek Hale was standing on the other side, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets.

“Hey,” Derek said.

Stiles just stared.

Derek’s eyes flickered down and drifted sideways. Stiles self-consciously slapped a hand over his neck, even though the hickey had faded by now, and Derek’s gaze jerked back up.

“Can I come in?” Derek asked.

Stiles tried, and failed, to come up with something more eloquent than _Why are you here?_

He decided to just stare some more.

“I can go, if you want,” Derek said, not looking at Stiles directly. His ears were starting to turn pink.

“No, no, that’s.” Stiles stepped back from the doorway. “Come in.” He shut the door behind Derek and slumped against it.

“Why are you here?” Stiles blurted.

So much for that plan.

Derek’s expression turned cagey. “It’s Saturday.”

“You—” Stiles ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a sigh of frustration. “Are you kidding me?”

Derek just shrugged.

“You weren’t here last Saturday,” Stiles pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest.

Derek looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Stiles was silent for a moment. “Is that why you knocked? Instead of just coming in through the window?”

“I talked to your dad,” Derek said, apropos of nothing, and Stiles glared.

“And?” he prompted.

Derek turned so he was staring out the window, one hand absently plucking at the hem of his jacket.

“He said you were grounded,” Derek said.

Stiles squinted at him. “Yeah, for like a month. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well,” Derek hedged, the flicker of a smile lingering on his lips, “I didn’t think your dad would appreciate strange older men sneaking into your bedroom.”

“Oh my god, I’m not in the mood to engage in witty repartee right now,” Stiles said, arching one eyebrow in Derek’s direction. “So maybe you could cut to the chase, say your piece, whatever? And then you can leave, and I can go back to hating everything, including myself.”

“Look, did you want to…” Derek frowned, lips pressed into a thin line. “Forget it.”

“Did I want to what?” Stiles snapped.

Derek glared at a point past Stiles’ shoulder. “Watch a movie, or something.”

“What?” Stiles could feel his jaw drop.

Derek’s glare intensified even as he shifted to stare straight at Stiles. “Your dad said you had the extended edition of Lord of the Rings.”

“You don’t have to look so _angry_ about it, yeesh,” Stiles said, pushing away from the door and heading for the living room. “I mean, I was just doing a history assignment, but that’s not due until Thursday or something ridiculous so it’s not like I—” He cut himself off and turned to look at Derek, who wasn’t smiling, per se, but he wasn’t frowning either. “Are you hungry? I could order, uh, pizza.”

“Sure,” Derek said.

Stiles wasn’t really sure what was going on. Maybe he was asleep. He looked down at his hands, just to make sure, but he definitely had ten fingers.

“Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles snapped his gaze back up. Derek was staring at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“We should set up the movie first, since the whole marathon is like twelve hours long, and that’s not even counting bathroom breaks,” Stiles blurted. He jerked his head towards the living room. “You coming?”

He didn’t wait to hear Derek’s response before turning and speed walking towards the DVD shelves.

***

Sam and Frodo hadn’t even left the shire yet, and Stiles was nearly jumping out of his skin.

On the couch next to him, Derek was sprawled out, his elbow propped up on the sofa arm. Every time Stiles looked over, he was watching the screen with a soft expression, genuinely absorbed in the movie.

What the fuck.

“Derek?”

Derek hummed in response, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Why are you here?” Stiles asked, his fingers drumming against his thigh.

Derek’s gaze finally flicked towards Stiles. “I like this movie.”

“No,” Stiles said, waving his hands around. “Why are you _here_?”

Derek slumped back against the couch cushions, his mouth thinning and his eyes hardening, and Stiles couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad for interrupting the movie.

“I just,” Stiles started, before stopping mid-sentence. “After what happened, you know.” He looked down at his lap, his fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of his t-shirt. “I figured this would be the last place you’d want to be.”

He heard Derek sigh beside him, and when he looked up, Derek had gone back to watching the movie.

“Hey, man, don’t ignore me,” Stiles said, and Derek’s eyes flicked back to meet his.

“I’m not ignoring you, Stiles,” he said, before falling silent again.

“What the hell, Derek? How is that,” he waved his hands in Derek’s general direction, “not ignoring me?”

Derek’s face flickered through a series of emotions that Stiles couldn’t quite parse, before settling on mild irritation. “Shut up and watch the movie, Stiles.”

Stiles glared at Derek, but he was watching the movie again.

“Fine,” Stiles huffed, but the buzzing in his chest still wouldn’t go away, and he couldn’t stop looking at Derek.

Derek was just sitting there, watching the movie, like nothing had happened between them. As though Stiles hadn’t taken advantage of Derek. As though Stiles wasn’t stupidly in love with him and trying to get over it.

Sitting next to Derek, and knowing that he couldn’t have him, was torture.

Stiles shoved himself off the couch and stood, stuffing his trembling hands in his pockets.

“Stiles?” Derek asked. His voice sounded sweetly concerned. It made Stiles want to scream.

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles lied, not caring that Derek could hear his heartbeat. “You don’t have to pause or anything.”

He focused his whole being on walking, not running, to the first floor bathroom, and he managed to close the door behind him before he dropped down on his elbows to lean heavily on the sink. His breathing was starting to come in shallow, erratic bursts.

 _Don’t panic_ , he thought, and somehow that made him freak out even more, his chest squeezing tight and his vision going fuzzy at the edges.

A knock sounded on the door, and Derek’s voice filtered through the wood. “Breathe, in and out, okay?”

Stiles sucked in a breath, and focused on the low rumble of Derek’s voice until his lungs no longer felt like they were trapped in a vice.

“Can I come in?” Derek asked, after a minute of silence.

His muscles still feeling weak, Stiles pushed himself away from the sink and opened the bathroom door.

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Stiles said, “I can’t do this.”

Derek just stared at him, those green eyes boring into him.

“Try to be your friend,” Stiles said, his hand tightening involuntarily on the doorknob. “Go back to the way it was.”

“So don’t,” Derek said.

“What?” Stiles stared at Derek, at the tense line of his shoulders and the stiff set to his jaw.

Derek sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, not saying anything else.

“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice coming out almost in a whine, “you gotta give me more than that. Come on, man.”

“Did you want—” Derek frowned, clamping his mouth shut only to open it again, heaving out an aggravated sigh. “Should I just leave?”

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to hide his disappointment. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Stiles, what do _you_ want?”

He wanted Derek. He wanted to watch scifi next to him on the couch and make fun of him and hold his hand. He wanted to do stupid soppy romance crap. But he couldn’t say any of that out loud.

“Why me?” Stiles asked instead, opening his eyes. “It’s just, after all the crap I put you through…”

“You did put me through a lot of crap,” Derek said, and he was probably trying to lighten up the mood, but the words just made Stiles feel nauseous.

Ever since Stiles had come back, he’d been thinking about Kate, about what she’d done to Derek. She’d burned his family alive, yeah, but it was more than that. He’d loved her, and she’d used him.

Stiles bit his lip. “Seriously, though,” he said.

Derek sighed.

Stiles took a deep breath. “I know you went through a lot of trauma and shit, I mean, your whole family was murdered, I get it. Okay, I don’t actually get it, I try not to think about it mostly, for the sake of my sanity, what little remains—”

Stiles shook his head. “But that’s totally beside the point. Which is, that you’ve already been through a ton of crap in your life, and that it’s not your responsibility to make sure nothing bad happens to you again. I didn’t…I didn’t really get it, at first.

“I mean,” Stiles continued, “I forced you into this, this thing, that meant way more than you wanted it to. No means no and you kept saying it and I didn’t listen. I—I forced myself on you. Not just, like, physically, but, mentally, and I—god, am I still doing it now?” Stiles’ eyes widened as he stared over at Derek. “Are you just spending time with me because you feel like you have to, out of, out of some sort of duty or obligation, or—”

Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words that just kept spilling out of his mouth. “And like, I don’t want to say the word out loud, what I did to you, that word, like, it’s literally a four-letter word, how dumb is that? But I keep thinking it, I can’t stop thinking it—”

“Stiles,” Derek said, and he was frowning and his eyebrows were furrowed like he wanted to say something but he didn’t know how.

“How can you even,” Stiles said, and then closed his eyes. “How can you stand being around me, after what I did to you?”

There was a long moment of silence, the only sound the harsh rasp of Stiles’ breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Finally, Derek cleared his throat.

“You’re right,” he said.

Stiles felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. When he opened his eyes, he looked over at Derek.

He was staring straight ahead, past Stiles’ shoulder, eyes unfocused.

“What you did,” Derek said, “it wasn’t okay.”

Stiles shut his eyes.

“I never want to be out of control of my body, of my mind, like that again.”

Stiles held his breath. He could feel tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes, but as long as he didn’t move, didn’t open them to look at Derek, they wouldn’t fall.

He just needed a minute, that was all.

“But,” Derek added, “I know you won’t let that happen.”

Stiles let out his breath in a rush as he felt a warm weight settle on his shoulder.

“Stiles,” Derek said. “Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles opened his eyes. Derek was looking back at him, his brow furrowed slightly.

“I know you wouldn’t do that to me again.”

Stiles wanted to ask how Derek knew, but he only managed to open and close his mouth.

Derek’s eyes grew soft as he looked over at Stiles. Faintly, so quiet Stiles almost couldn’t make out the words, he said,

“I trust you.”

Stiles felt his jaw drop open. Because that…that was…

Coming from Derek Hale, that was practically a marriage proposal. That was _I love you_ and _I like you_ and _let’s grow old together and have lots of little werewolf babies_.

Stiles was getting a little teary-eyed just thinking about it, and he was in a fragile emotional state just then, so it was totally understandable that he might have let slip a completely manly sob.

Derek reached over with one hand and brushed the wetness away from Stiles’ cheeks, and then he leaned forward to enfold Stiles in his arms.

“Shh,” Derek murmured into Stiles’ hair, one hand running up and down his back. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

Stiles drew in shaky breaths, his hands clutching tight to the solid width of Derek’s shoulders, head buried in the crook of his neck, until his muscles stopped trembling.

Derek pulled back just enough to look at Stiles’ face, his eyebrows drawn together.

“I trust you, too,” Stiles blurted, and Derek blinked back at him.

Stiles slid one hand to cup against the back of Derek’s neck, and waited, heart thundering in his chest.

Derek’s kiss was chaste but firm, a solid press of lips against his own, as one thumb reached up to stroke Stiles’ cheek bone.

Stiles finally remembered how to breathe at about the same time that Derek pulled away.

“Wow,” Stiles said as Derek stepped backwards and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Wait, why are you stopping?”

“I don’t want your dad to shoot me.”

Stiles frowned, crossing his arms over his chest as he settled back against the bathroom sink. “He wouldn’t shoot you.”

Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Much,” Stiles qualified. “Well. He wouldn’t shoot you with wolfsbane bullets, at least. Probably.”

Derek huffed a silent laugh before his expression sobered. He cleared his throat. “Can I come over next week?”

Derek looked straight ahead at Stiles, his gaze unwavering, but the tips of his ears were pink.

“I, um,” Stiles said. “Yeah, yes. Of course.”

Derek didn’t say anything, but the corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile before he turned and walked out of view.


	20. Happy Ending (Or: A kinda lame first date)

The following Saturday, Stiles was better prepared. Though now he felt stupid for spending two hours freaking out about his outfit. His dad had left shortly after ten with some excuse about picking up some extra hours at the station, leaving Stiles with nothing to do other than pace a hole through the carpet and wait for Derek to arrive.

Should Stiles even have been nervous? Was this a date? It felt suspiciously like a date.

Stiles was so not prepared for this.

At four minutes past eleven—not that Stiles was watching the clock obsessively or anything, because he totally wasn’t—the doorbell rang, and Stiles bolted to the front door and practically threw it open.

“Heeeeey,” he said, leaning back against the door frame with his arms crossed casually over his chest. “Derek. How’s it going.”

Derek frowned back at him. “Fine,” he said, before stepping past Stiles to come inside. He looked confused, disgruntled even, and Stiles thought he looked adorable.

How was disgruntlement adorable? That shouldn’t be adorable. What the hell was _wrong_ with Stiles, god.

“Cool,” Stiles just said, backing away from the doorframe. “You should come in,” he added, flailing at Derek, even though it was pretty obvious that he’d already let himself in. “Make yourself at home, or whatever.”

Derek frowned back at him.

“Did you want something to drink? We have water. Obviously. I mean, who doesn’t have water? No one, that’s who. Maybe people who live way out in the country and there’s a drought so their wells have run dry, but not us! Yep.”

Derek was starting to look even more bewildered, the crease between his eyebrows furrowing.

“If you want alcohol, though, my dad has some decent scotch. Uh, and we have milk, two percent, which is clearly the best kind.” Seeing that Derek’s frown was just deepening, Stiles turned and opened up the fridge, starting to rummage through the cartons. “I’m not sure if we bought more cranberry juice, I kind of finished off the last of it earlier this week. Oh, right, and there’s orange juice,” he said, pulling out the carton and turning around to shake it at Derek, “I always forget because we mostly keep it around for when Scott comes over.”

By now, Derek was looking at Stiles with a sort of helpless confusion.

“So, uh, what’ll it be?” Stiles asked, staring back at Derek. “Do I need to repeat the options?”

“I don’t need a drink,” Derek said slowly.

“Okay, dude,” Stiles babbled, “way to be awkward, I mean, I was just trying to be a good host.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, and was that amusement creeping into his tone?

“Stiles, what?”

“Are we going to finish the movie?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Stiles turned around and shoved the orange juice canister back in the door before whirling back around. “I guess we can do that.”

Derek’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk before he turned and walked towards the living room. Stiles’ eyes flitted down as he walked away. That _ass_.

“You coming?” Derek called over his shoulder.

Shut up, brain.

***

This time they made it through the scene in the tavern with Strider, before Stiles blurted, “Is this a date?”

Derek was quiet. “Do you want it to be?”

Stiles could feel his face heat up, and he must have been silent for too long, because Derek sighed and shifted away from Stiles on the couch. “No, it’s not a date, Stiles.”

Stiles looked up at Derek, but his face was blank. After a moment of silence, Stiles said, “Well, that’s good.”

He was watching closely enough that he didn’t miss the flash of hurt on Derek’s face. It gave him enough courage for what he was planning to say next.

“Because sitting on my dad’s couch watching a movie seems like a kinda lame first date.”

Derek’s expression didn’t change, and for a second Stiles worried that he’d read him wrong.

“What would be a better one?” Derek asked.

Stiles bit his lip and thought. “It would definitely involve curly fries. And milkshakes.”

Derek was silent, and Stiles was pretty sure that neither one of them were watching the movie anymore.

“Or, you know, whatever,” Stiles blurted, at the same time that Derek started to say something.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“I just,” Derek said, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “was going to say okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles asked, his heart beating rabbit-fast in his chest.

“Curly fries,” Derek confirms.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice cracking slightly. He simultaneously wanted to vomit and to run around the room in circles, whooping.

“So did you want to finish the movie?” Derek asked, as onscreen the hobbits started listing off mealtimes, much to Strider’s annoyance.

“Sure,” Stiles lied, and spent the next hour hyper-aware of the heat of Derek’s body on the couch beside him.

***

Stiles spent approximately ninety-five percent of the following week analyzing the not-date with Derek, and trying to figure out what he had meant by “okay.”

He wasn’t freaking out, or anything.

Okay, he was totally freaking out.

Did Derek want to date Stiles? Was that what they were doing? Or was Derek his boyfriend? Were they even going on a date, or had Derek just been asking so he’d know what to avoid, so that he wouldn’t be leading Stiles on? Had Stiles been reading everything wrong? Maybe Derek really had just wanted to watch Lord of the Rings, and Stiles was the only person he knew who owned the extended edition. It wasn’t like the loft had a TV. Fuck.

“Stiles,” Scott said, huffing in exasperation, “you’re freaking out about nothing.”

“You’re damn right I’m freaking out about nothing! As in, literally nothing. The nothing in Derek’s loft that will play DVDs.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “He could always just use Peter’s laptop.”

“But that would involve _Peter_.”

“You’re impossible,” Scott muttered.

“He’s probably just as nervous as you are,” Kira pointed out, from her seat next to Scott.

“Whoah, when did you get here?” Stiles blurted.

Kira and Scott both frowned at him. “I’ve been here the whole time,” Kira said. “I eat lunch with you every day?”

“Lies!” Stiles shouted.

“Do you think this is why he always talks about me like I’m not here?” Kira asked Scott.

“Who knows,” Scott said, shoveling in another forkful of macaroni. “The Stiles works in mysterious ways.”

***

By the time Saturday rolled around, Stiles was a mass of jangling nerves and twitching muscles. Plus, no matter how much he hinted, his dad wouldn’t _leave_.

“Maybe you should go to the grocery store. I think we’re out of turkey bacon.”

Stiles’ dad stared at him from his spot on the couch. “We have plenty of turkey bacon, Stiles.”

“Orange juice, then! We need more for when Scotty comes by.”

“He still hasn’t finished off what we have.”

“Yeah, but there’s, like, a cup left. Or two. He could drink all of that and then we’d be out, and he’d be sad, Dad. Believe me when I say you don’t want to make Scott sad.”

His dad thumbed to the next page in his book.

“But, sad Scott!”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Derek coming over, would it?” Stiles’ dad asked, the hint of a smirk ghosting over his lips.

“What, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would Derek be coming over?”

His dad ignored him.

“Oh my god, you’re the worst. I just want to remind you that all of my bad genetics come from you.” Stiles stormed out of the living room, shouting over his shoulder, “You only have yourself to blame!”

Stomping out to the porch, Stiles had barely sat down on the steps when a familiar car rumbled to a stop in front of his house.

“Hi,” Derek said, stepping out of the driver’s side door.

“Hi,” Stiles said, and felt his cheeks heat up. Ugh.

“Is your dad home?” Derek asked, a small smile on his face as he strode up to Stiles.

Stiles frowned. “Unfortunately.”

“Okay.” Derek’s eyes flickered up to the front door. “I promised we’d talk to him before he left.”

“You _what_?” Stiles asked, his father’s insistent presence suddenly making horrible, horrible sense. “You _told_ him? That we were going on a…”

Derek frowned down at Stiles. “Of course I told him.”

Stiles smacked his forehead with the flat of his palm. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_.”

Derek rolled his eyes and extended his hand to Stiles. “Get up and stop being a drama queen.”

Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand and hoisted himself to his feet, trying not to think about how broad Derek’s palm was, or how soft his skin felt.

“I’m not a drama queen,” Stiles said, once he was standing next to Derek. “A king, maybe.”

Derek smiled at him. “The queen is the most powerful chess piece,” he pointed out, before turning and opening the front door.

Stiles gaped at his back for a moment before following him inside.

“Sheriff,” Derek said, nodding at Stiles’ dad, who was pushing himself off the couch and coming over to the entryway.

“Derek,” Dad replied, and holy mother of god, he was smiling at Derek. Why the hell was he smiling at Derek?

“Someone please explain what’s going on here,” Stiles said.

The look his dad shot him was not nearly so warm and friendly. “What’s going on here, is that one of the conditions of your grounding was complete transparency. Which you haven’t been doing.”

Stiles felt the blood drain out of his face. “What?”

His dad sighed. “Anything you want to tell me about your plans for today?”

Stiles twitched. “Derek’s going to come over?”

“Actually,” Derek said, “I was hoping we could go out.” When Stiles looked over at him, the tips of his ears were turning pink. “Get lunch, maybe.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his mind flashing to _curly fries and milkshakes_ and his stomach suddenly twisting in knots.

“Yes, oh,” his dad said, rudely interrupting Stiles’ revelatory moment. “Bring him back by three, text me when you get to the restaurant and again when you leave, and keep your phone on in case I need to contact you.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said.

“I’m in the twilight zone,” Stiles said. “It’s the only explanation.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Are you coming or not?”

Stiles managed not to say anything inappropriate, but only because his dad was staring at him with his judgmental face on.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, gaze flicking back to his father.

“If you get arrested for public indecency,” his father added, “I’m not posting your bail.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles squeaked, before Derek grabbed his wrist and tugged him out the front door.

“Well, that was mortifying,” Stiles said, once the front door had shut behind him and Derek dropped his wrist.

“Just a bit,” Derek said. He was avoiding Stiles’ eyes.

“So,” Stiles said. “Where are we going?”

Derek stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I was thinking Ruby’s.”

“You know, I think they have both curly fries _and_ milkshakes,” Stiles said, trying to hold back the grin threatening to split his face in two.

“I had no idea,” Derek said.

Even without werewolf powers, Stiles could tell he was lying.

“Yeah, yeah, you big softie,” Stiles said, and walked around to hop in the passenger side of Derek’s car.

After Derek had closed the driver side door, but before he had finished putting the key in the ignition, Stiles took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said, his heartbeat picking up. 

Derek grunted in acknowledgment, but didn’t look up.

Stiles swallowed. “You know that thing that we did a couple weeks ago? Can we, uh, do that again?”

Derek’s hand stilled on the key. “Watch Lord of the Rings? Sure.”

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “No, dumbass, the other thing. That my dad wouldn’t shoot you for doing.”

Derek pursed his lips. “Order pizza? I was going to take you out to lunch, but...”

Stiles threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Oh my god, stop being deliberately obtuse, I swear I’m gonna—” Stiles looked over at Derek, only to see him smirking. That asshole.

“You asshole,” Stiles said.

“Oh, I see,” Derek said, his smirk growing even wider. “You meant the _kissing_.”

“Yes!”

Derek tilted his head. “I’m good.” He resumed turning the key in the ignition; under them, the engine rumbled to life.

Stiles stared, open mouthed. “What do you mean, you’re good? Oh my god, you’re such a _dick_.”

Derek flashed him a grin before leaning in close. “Well, I was thinking we could make out on your bed later...”

Stiles felt his mouth go dry. “You better not be joking, Derek, I swear to _god_ , I will—”

“You’ll what?” Derek asked, an inch away from Stiles’ face.

“I’ll, uh.” When had he gotten so close, anyway? 

Derek leaned impossibly closer. Stiles could feel soft breaths ghosting against his skin. Their lips were almost touching. So close, and yet so far. Stiles was going to die.

“Hng,” he whimpered.

Derek flashed a grin, all teeth, simultaneously more vicious and more heated than Stiles had ever seen it.

“Guess that’ll have to wait until after your birthday,” Derek said, and then he moved back into his own seat, maneuvering the car into drive, and Stiles was left making impotent grabby hands in his direction.

“What? No!”

“I’m happy to lick you in wolf form until then, if you like.”

“Oh my god, I have the worst boyfriend in the world,” Stiles proclaimed.

To his delight, Derek’s ears turned pink.

“But I guess I shouldn’t expect you to put out before the third date anyway,” Stiles continued. “I mean, we both already know what we look like naked, so it’s not like there’s novelty there, though the touching should be new and exciting. Can I just say, I am _really_ looking forward to you letting me put my hands on your di—mph!”

Score one for Stiles’ strategy of talking until Derek was forced to shut him up with his mouth.

Outside the car window, Stiles heard a faint yell. When he craned his neck to look, his dad was striding towards the car, a frown on his face.

“Oh, shit,” Derek said, and stepped a little too hard on the accelerator.

Stiles laughed all the way to the diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who made it this far - whether you've been reading since the first update or you just stopped by. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much I enjoyed writing it. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://ureshiiichigo.tumblr.com) for silly things and music recs.


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